Untrashed . . .

— From CB —

Yesterday after gym, I stopped at the coffee shop where I normally write for 90 minutes, walk to the library, write some more, then walk the mile or so home and start the day. Most times, this span is productive, sometimes not, but it’s from this routine that I try to chisel out the raw block of stone that we’ll eventually craft into our next Venus de Milo or Pieta. Creativity, for me, is sometimes thrilling, usually gnarly, and always enhanced by my flaxseed muffins.

Yesterday was a shock. I’m often victim to computer hijinks. Elizabeth hears many late-night exclamations from my direction: “What the f—!” and “What is it doing?!” and “This has never ever done this before!” My psychic extrusions seem to play havoc with cybernetics. I swear a bit, settle, and somehow find a workaround.

But yesterday at the coffee shop, my iPad gave a surprise. Into the second draft of a new novel, MASKS, I normally work on a single chapter at a time, then plug it into the full draft before Elizabeth takes a crack at it. The chapter doc is then deleted. Works fine. Only downside is that with the iPad I haven’t found a way to restore an accidental deletion—no trash bin from which you can recover lost dentures.

 Booting up, I found about 15 documents—old chapters—that I’d long ago trashed.

 Was this a computer glitch? A sign of impending senility? Was the iPad hinting that these chapters still had a long way to go? I already know that, dammit! This is only the second draft! Let me do it my way!

 I didn’t fling my instrument at the barista or crush my muffin into the keyboard. I methodically deleted the documents and continued my linguistic shuffles and my munching.

 But it stirs deeper questions. Is sin unforgiveable? What’s the root cause of acid reflux? When my turn came in third grade to erase the blackboard, could I have done a better job? Is subtraction only the addition of a negative? Is technology all fucked up?

 The jury is out.       

***