The prodigal laptop has returned.
The new hard drive is in place. Printer drivers, camera software, and antivirus program have been installed.
MS Word is being a bit passive-aggressive in refusing to open a couple of documents I wanted to transfer from the flash drive. Open Office stopped downloading for no apparent reason, but–
My laptop is back. On my lap.
I hate to say this, considering that David went to so much trouble figuring out how to back up the old hard drive, but I sort of like the laptop in its current state of pristinity.*
One column of icons runs down the left side of the desktop. Dozens of old icons have vanished: the files I threw there so I could postpone deciding where to store them; the files I threw there because I was afraid I’d forget where I’d stored them; the files I threw there because I intended to move them to the recycle bin in just a few minutes.
The desktop is so clean and neat. It’s like I tidied it up myself.
And the Documents folder is empty: a clean, white box that affords room to breathe.
At a Writers’ League of Texas meeting last year, author Cynthia Leitich Smith said she composes a first draft quickly, then prints it out and writes all over the hard copy. Then she disposes of the print-out, deletes the file, and begins a second draft from scratch.
I thought that was the bravest thing I’d ever heard, so brave it bordered on crazy.
But now I think I know how she must feel: an Incredible Lightness of Being. No old draft plucking at her clothing, pulling her down.
Of course, I don’t really know how she feels, because I haven’t disposed of anything. It’s all on the external hard drive, waiting to be reloaded.
And as I told David, if it isn’t there, so what? Most of what I care about is somewhere–on a flash drive or attached to an e-mail I sent myself–and what isn’t somewhere probably wasn’t worth saving.
Anyway, I had saved so many drafts of the novel under so many different names that I often became confused about which I was supposed to be working on. Now I have the crummy rough draft and the less crummy third (fourth? fifth? sixth?) revised beginning. That’s enough for anyone.
I talk big at 11:45 p.m. CST.
In the morning, things might not look so rosy. I might be repenting that attitude all over the place.
But I’ll think about that tomorrow.
For tomorrow is another day.
I know pristinity isn’t a word. But it should be. Once upon a time, chortle wasn’t a word either. If I’m going to get into the OED, I can’t spend all my time kowtowing to dictionary.com.