by Bad Girl
I write mystery and suspense fiction. Lately it's been taking over my life.
I blame this on my new laptop. Sleek and slim, it accompanies me everywhere: in the car, at the kitchen table, in the loo.
Unfortunately, it has become too convenient. I have become a victim of the Computer Black Hole of Time. Take yesterday, for instance:
"Quick - the laptop! I have an idea and I don't want to lose it."
"Oh no, Mom! Not the laptop! Don't do it...don't turn it on...don't"
(Insert theme song from Twilight Zone here.)
Alas, poor Natalie. She knows what is to come. Like Jeff Goldblum in that remake of The Fly, I merge with my mini-computer. We become one. Conscious only of our own existence. Oblivious to the sounds of life around us. Consumed by the story that has to come out of us.
Somewhere, a voice cuts through the fog.
"Mom, I'm hungry."
Normally a staunch advocate of the five food groups, I forget all about artificial flavour, colour dye number 412 and hydrogenated everything. Lost in the netherworld of word-processing, I utter the dead giveaway:
"There's some Twinkies in the cupboard."
Natalie shakes her head in despair. "She's gone."
Tap tap tap. Fingers on the keyboard have a rhythm all their own. Mesmerizing. Hours shrink to minutes. Like a jigsaw puzzle half done, the shreds of my story are piecing themselves together. If I can only...
"Dad's home, Mom."
"Just a sec."
"It's dinner time, Mom."
"I think there's some Oreo's in the cupboard."
Back to the keyboard. The laptop is humming our tune. Words glide across the screen in a seductive dance. I'm caught in the feverish whirlpool of setting, viewpoint, characterization and climax.
An electric can-opener disturbs my train of thought.
"Earth to Mom. Want some tuna?"
"Just a sec."
"Honey, are you all right?"
My husband's voice. What is he doing home so early?
"We're eating now," he says.
"Have a Pop Tart," I blurt.
Natalie shakes her head. "Give up, Dad."
I'm back to the screen, running with my story character...heart pounding, mind agonizing. Will he get to the scene before the murderer? Will he be in time to prevent it?
Somewhere in the house, water is running - pounding on porcelain like thunder. Hey, that's it! Add a blinding thunder storm, the hero running through sheets of rain, slipping on wet pavement, unable to read the house numbers....
I PG UP and start revising.
"Murrmph?" I don't look up.
Finished. I save copy and turn of my partner in crime, the laptop. Draft one, complete. What a team. Sitting for hours in one position, I am oddly invigorated. Ready to run the Boston Marathon, and looking for company.
It's dark outside. The house is quiet. I thump upstairs, looking for everyone.
Even my husband is in bed. I sit on the edge of the mattress, bewildered.
"Why is everyone in bed so early?"
My husband pokes his head up. "It's 3 a.m."
"It is?" Astonishing. Once again, I have been a victim of the Computer Black Hole of Time: entire hours mysteriously devoured by the simple on-switch of a computer. I contemplate starting a self-help group for chronic users: Over-Byters Anonymous. But I don't think I could deal with the separation anxiety.
"Wanna read my story?" I ask eagerly.
There are limits to the devotion of even the most supportive family.
It's 3 a.m. He declines.
Melodie Campbell got her start writing standup. Her books and short stories have won 10 awards, even though they are probably certifiable, poor things. Read at your own risk.