Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
One thing has been hanging on my to-do list for years.
I must get rid of my old computers.
I’ve been using my current laptop for ten years. It replaced a laptop which replaced a laptop which replaced a tower.
I still have all of those computers which I replaced. They’re neatly stacked in a hutch.
Besides those, I have my wife’s MacBooks. She’s on number four since 2001 and numbers one, two, and three are part of the pile. My main thing is that I want to pull all those hard drives before I get rid of the computers. Then I’ll wipe the hard drives and get rid of them. Sure, I can pay people to do that sort of thing for me but I’m a staunch DIYer.
So it hasn’t been done. They’re a permanent part of my “to-do list”. Someday, though someday…
Maybe.
I’ve been thinking about tomorrow. In some sense, it was about delaying something that I want to do, like rake leaves. Stagnant air shrouds the sky. The temperature floats up and down, thirty-five to thirty-eight and back. Too chilly and uncomfortable for this sugar cube. I’ll do it tomorrow, I tell myself, knowing tomorrow is forecast for more of the same. Shrug.
Then there’s the broader version of tomorrow, a new time, a new year, and not quite a new era, when Trump is out of the office and Mr. Biden takes the oath as POTUS. Come on, tomorrow.
Several songs come to mind, but the 1994 offering by Silverchair, “Tomorrow”, takes over my mental musical stream.
So here it goes, in honor of tomorrow, and its promise.
Silverchair – Tomorrow (Australian Version) (Official Video) – YouTube
Little victories count highly when the days roll on in dull hot and cold repetition, challenging me with tedium and boredom. Being an optimistic, though, I remind myself, at least I’m not under fire, fleeing a wildfire, fighting off zombies, dealing with disease, flooding and pestilence, or enduring anything discomforting.
I, on the computer, at the desk, hot coffee in a mug, cool wind through the screen at my back, was thinking through last night’s strange dream, wherein I was collecting health reports on my mother and faxing them off while helping other relatives handle exuberant dogs. Quinn, my personal feline attendant, completing his morning checklist, was beside me asleep on the desk. Suddenly –
Rising, he jumped down to the floor. Sensing something amiss, I tensed, not breathing, for several seconds.
Quinn began his upchuck routine.
Here’s where procrastination pays.
Leaping into action, I seized yesterday’s paper, which should have already been moved to the recycle but I hadn’t because the Zika virus! And Trump! And Hillary’s emails! And ISIS! And Giant Pearl!
Gently seizing Quinn, I spread the paper in front of him and held him as he brought up a hairball. Now my cat forensics rewarded me, as I knew Quinn does not stop with one. No, moving to one side, he began another. I slid the paper over and held onto him.
Once that was done, I let him go off, folding the paper with its ‘prize’. But Quinn wasn’t finished. A third seemed imminent. Folded paper in hand, I joined him, keeping him in place with gentle hands on either side, talking to him and stroking as I placed the paper beneath his head.
Fini, at last.
And I was so satisfied, so pleased and proud, because my cat had brought up a hairball with his morning meal, and I had intercepted it all, getting nothing on the floor, without either of us becoming freaked. Woo hoo, aren’t I great?
There was no one around to share my joy.
Quinn didn’t care. He moved to the window sill to enjoy the jays pondering the day. I, inspired by my MAJOR ACHIEVEMENT, cleaned the litter box.
Still, it’s a great day, isn’t it? Yes sir, no hairball on the floor. Call the news services. Set up a conference. Issue a press release.
And my coffee is still hot. Ish.
Woo hoo.
I don’t want to edit my novel.
Not because I don’t love my novel.
My novel is like a brightly shining star.
That can be taken many ways. If it’s a star, its light must travel great distances. That takes a long time. If the novel’s words are the light, its light will not reach people for a while. So what’s another day or two?
If the novel is a star, it’s unique and alike, like snowflakes, beers, cats and people — and novels. It’s remote and unattainable, but inspiring and bright, a thing of beauty and mystery, something to be parsed, studied, watched. Something for wonder.
I don’t want to edit my novel.
And my brain is very happy with that. Come, let us write other stories, my brain says. It’s a beautiful day to start a new story, or to continue one you set aside. Remember that novel about the bookmarker? You want to write it, don’t you, I know you do.
Yes, I want to tear into that novel like it’s a fresh, warm piece of blueberry pie with a scoop of ice cream.
But I am strong, and I resist!
What about that other novel, the one about the woman and equations? You really want to write that novel, don’t you?
Yes, I want to write that novel like it’s a mug of cold ale on a molten lava day.
But I am strong, and I resist!
What about that other novel you’ve been thinking about, you know, the one about the weapon system that impairs people’s memories so people end up with other people’s incomplete memories, and try to live others’ lives? If you don’t want to do that one, you can work on the next novel in the Lessons with Savanna series, Personal Lessons with Savanna. You were writing a chapter in your head this morning while you were weed whacking. There is also the novel about when time fractured —
Enough, brain, enough. I am strong, and I resist! I will edit.
I will edit, I will edit, I will edit.
Oh, but to sample a new novel, to dip myself into those places and characters and let their chi flow through me.
I will edit, I will edit, I will edit.
I will edit.
Really, I will edit.
Michael Seidel, writer 