I think I need to start writing again. In the past I would be writing all the time. It would help me think, sort things through, work things out and most of all, I enjoyed it. I dusted off my most recent journal and discovered that in the past ten years, since November 12th, 1999, I have written a total of seven pages. That has to change, I need to start writing again.
What has kept me from writing? There always seemed to be something else to do, and that something else usually involved doing stuff on my computer. For a machine that is supposed to help us make more effective use of our increasingly demanded-upon time, it seems to be of little help to my creative output. I hate writing on computer, the process doesn’t work the same. Yes, I have done it, but by the time I complete my piece of prose on the screen I am so fed up with it, the creative part of my brain actually feels tired and depressed. It is sometimes months before I can bring myself to sit in front of the keyboard and type something new once more.
When it comes to writing, I need to be laying prone with a pen in my hand and the paper of one of my journals inches from my nose so that I can actually smell the ink drying on the faded yellowing pages. No spell check, no auto correction, no beeping when I forget to capitalize I. It’s just me and the words as they flow through my fingers, from down my arm, straight out of my brain. Mistakes can be corrected after I have the thoughts captured on paper. I can polish the grammar, generate proper punctuation, move the i’s before the e’s except after the c’s, when I type the whole thing up for computer. It is funny how retyping, editing and formatting stuff on screen is something I can do obsessively all day long, but to write something new on screen mentally fatigues me.
So why are you reading these words at this moment? It is because three things happened this past week. First my desktop computer got infected with a virus so virulent that it even made my virus scanning software throw up. I reformatted my entire computer before finding out I am missing the discs with the multitude of drivers needed to make my computer do the things I really want it to do, such as connecting me back to the internet. It was no big deal, I still have my laptop and after the last time my hard drive crashed I learned to start backing up all my important files on external hard drives. So I would still have other things to keep me too busy to write.
The second thing that happened in the past few days was I learned how short the USB cable to my external hard drive truly is. It was right about the same instant I accidentally hooked into that cable and sent a terabyte of hard drive flying across the room with tremendous acceleration, slamming into the wall and bouncing on the floor, thus reducing the said hard drive’s functionality by %98. (The little blue light still comes on when I plug it in, briefly.)
The final thing that happened was yesterday. With no computer filled with amazing programs and no hard drive filled with time consuming files, I found myself laying prone on my bed imagining what it was like to be Brittany Murphy. It was there and then I said to myself, “I really need to find something better to do.” Then it struck me, that laying there in that position, only two things were missing; a pen in my hand and paper under my nose.
I really need to start writing again. And since I no longer have anything else to do on computer, I did.