There are writers who use this thing called a typewriter instead of a computer, they send letters, not emails, and they keep journals, not blogs. I’m no longer one of these people. For better or for worse, my world is undone by a technical glitch. I live in fear of the tiny bad connection that lurks within my laptop. How big might this gap between whatever is in there be? Perhaps a hair? Might as well be the universe for the damage it can cause.

At this point I think it is silly to argue the wisdom of our wired age. I don’t try to argue for or against it for the same reason I don’t try to figure out why we’re here–better minds than mine have struggled with the question and a satisfactory answer has yet to be forthcoming. The only question I’m really interested in is–when can I get a new computer?

Actually I’ve got loads of questions–should I send my manuscript to a small press? Should I rewrite my first novel, again? Should I stay awake or go to bed? Is the age of four a lot like the age 14 like I’ve been told, because if it is, I’m in big trouble.

Some Zen wisdom would probably be good about now. Not that my laptop will listen…