It doesn’t matter what brand I get, how much I pay, or how many bells and whistles it has, every computer I’ve managed to buy has been a lemon. No Midas touch here. But it gets better. My computers normally manage to crash around edits or deadlines. Oh, wait. I get it. This is what we writers call plotting.
Picture this. Character is a writer. Let’s give her a name. Say, Pollyanna (which is totally not me, just so you know). She’s working on edits for her current story. She’s also a couple of days away from leaving on an RV book tour. We can’t let her go about her merry way, happily making changes to her story, singing while she folds her clothes all nice and neat in her luggage, now, can we? NO! How boring is that?
It’s a bright sunshiny morning and Pollyanna is showered, dressed and happily whistling to the tune of “Whistle While You Work.” Life is good. She grabs her coffee and turns on her computer to work on her edits. Her manicured nails drum against the table. She takes a sip of coffee and notices a funny blinking message on the computer. How odd. After clicking here, poking there, she decides to turn the computer off and try again.
Hours and 25 tries later, Pollyanna’s spirits dip slightly. Her husband interrupts her dilemma and wants to change the phone to digital voice and he wants to do it NOW. More spirit dipping here. Back to the computer. Twenty-five more tries. Still no life in the computer. By now Pollyanna is banging on the lid of the computer. Nothing. She jumps on the computer. Nothing. At seventy tries, Pollyanna’s breathing fire and has pulled out a sledgehammer. Before Pollyanna can hurt anything or anyone, a Girl Scout rings her doorbell, and Pollyanna buys chocolate cookies. With cookies and computer in hand, she heads for the computer store.
She walks up to the window where the nice little ten year old smiles cheerfully. Pollyanna wants to rip his lips off. She eats a cookie to calm down then explains the problem. After a rather lengthy discussion, Counter Boy says it’s a hard drive crash. He’ll get to it in a week or so.
At this point, Pollyanna disses the cookies, grabs the ten-year-old by his collar and grinds out through clenched teeth, “Look. You go back there and tell the powers that be that you have a crazy woman writer out here. She is on deadline. If they don’t do something quick, she could go postal.”
Well, you get the idea. Is this the dark moment when all is lost, or will things get worse for Pollyanna? Well, I’ll let you write the ending to that story.
In the meantime, life goes on. All of life is fodder for the imagination. Right now I’m imagining a peaceful tide rolling onto a white sandy beach where I’m plunked near the water’s edge. I’m reading a Colleen Coble book where the body of a computer geek has washed up to shore . . . .