Picture this: Sinclair Lewis, the hard-hitting word slinger of the American novel and playwriting scene, so intertwined with his portable typewriter that he hauled the damn thing with him on his honeymoon in 1928. It’s like the guy couldn’t leave home without it.

You’d think his fresh spouse, the razor-sharp journalist Dorothy Thompson, would’ve called foul. But no, she just shook her head and laughed. Love’s strange like that, I suppose.

Despite the romantic allure of newlywed bliss, our man Sinclair managed to sneak in a little keyboard time. Yeah, he’d hole up right there on the steps of their caravan, a custom-built beast that stretched seventeen feet from bumper to bumper. They’d packed this metallic cocoon with all the amenities of a cozy bungalow—think snug living room, a fully-stocked kitchen, all the usual stuff. They were, after all, embarking on a summer-long odyssey through the rolling green landscapes of England and Scotland. Sounds like a dream, doesn’t it?

The caravan, it seems, was designed with everything a wanderlust-struck couple could need for a three-month tour. Well, almost everything. In a comedic twist of fate, the architects seemed to have missed one critical detail—no damn typing room! But when you’re Sinclair Lewis, anywhere can be a writing den. And that, folks, is how you churn out magic in the face of life’s charming absurdities.

Now, imagine this: You’re Sinclair Lewis, hunkered down on the steps of your caravan, churning out literary gold on your portable typewriter. And, let’s be honest, maybe these sessions were a welcome breather from the euphoria of newlywed life. A bit of solitude to refocus, reaffirm your commitment to the written word. Sounds like a slice of nirvana, doesn’t it?

Just as things were starting to get comfy, a curveball. A letter from a female fan lands in your mailbox, and boy, she’s got an offer that’s hard to ignore. She’s throwing herself at your feet, promising to play the role of your secretary. And she’s not just talking about typing up manuscripts and fetching coffee. No, she writes, “I’ll do everything for you – and when I say everything, I mean everything.” Now that’s dedication. You can practically hear her batting her eyelashes through the page. (One might speculate that her interpretation of “everything” might extend as far as topping off his whiskey glass.)

Dorothy Thompson’s response to the wannabe stenographer:

My dear Miss:
My husband already has a stenographer who handles his work for him. And, as for “everything,” I take care of that myself — and when I say everything, I mean everything.
Dorothy Thompson (Mrs Sinclair Lewis to you.)

And so it goes.