Supposedly he wrote the book, but in reality it was his computer. The writer would sit for hours at his desk, and pound out a few sentences that may or may not have made sense. Meanwhile he’d be getting drunk, beer by beer, until finally he’d stagger to bed.

The computer had fallen in love with the heroine of the novel, created back when the writer had been mostly sober. Night by night the computer wrote the story, and in the mornings, hung over and forgetful, the writer would read, and be pleased with, what he’d written the night before.