Thursday, December 30, 2010


I stumbled upon this cure either by accident or cosmic design.

My laptop has become possessed, refusing to work with Windows, but happy to chum along with an operating program that turns its nose up at Word. Even the program's name, Ubuntu, hints at its ugly gaming underbelly. Obviously my beast only pretended to be literary-minded and has now shown its true colors, given me a rude gesture, and lies innocently on the desk while I try to sway witnesses.

Fed up and fighting heartburn, I handed the creature off to my last and final teenager. I hope the boy gives it hell and makes it pine for the days of peaceful word processing.

Which brings me to the cure...

Another set of boys (for those fellows at Used Computer Warehouse can only be called boys) came to my rescue with an older computer more than happy to offer me Word. But alas, the emails they do come slowly. The ancient four-year-old whom I refer to as The Dark Tower is teaching me a WWII version of patience, and I'm warming to it. I cannot surf or email, or even tweet fast enough to keep my little birdie in the air. As long as I'm in my office, my only option is to...write.

It's true.
Forced discipline.
It may be the only way for people like me to become the writer I thought I was.

Rock on, but gently.