As long as my mind is clear and my fingers capable of typing, I will write. And read; so I need my eyes. I imagine myself a head and arms above and aside a metal (please, not plastic!) box whirring with computer blips to run me–keep me alive. But then, if I am the computer, why the arms to reach out to a laptop? And why a laptop if I have no lap?
Silly thoughts in the dark of autumn early mornings. No sillier though, I suppose, than dreams of making scores of beds and watching wolves outside the window. The black bears were my husband; who, the wolves?
It’s coming clearer to me now that I’ve halted twittering that it was good for thoughts like these, that all my weblogging life I’ve tried to separate the serious literary commentary from the supposed reality(?) of living and yet it felt so scattered that I keep returning to a single format where only one or two journals are out there for the populace to read. Where politics can be muffled by the stipulations of a categorized plan. Where my literary thoughts are used to tutor unknown students seeking data for some paper to turn in. But there is no pleasure in the discourse if there is no communication or argument of exchange.
Then the need comes to reveal though the threat of oblivion is still (with luck) some years away. Now I see the impetus for the latest story; the seed that drove it. And it’s too late to have a child other than my laptop.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology