My future ran into a brick wall last night. Before yesterday, I was cruising along on the internet highway at breakneck speed. I stopped to visit old friends and picked up new ones along the way. I still had time to read my mail and even catch a video while I worked on my latest project.
But technology can be a monster sometimes. It can refuse to cooperate while tempting you with treasures just beyond your reach.
In the name of progress, I changed my internet connection yesterday. I was told everything was working.
Last night I realized I had no access to the internet. I was dead in the water, mere inches from everything I needed to work on and no way to get there. How could this have happened to me?
I actually sat there a moment, staring at the screen in disbelief. I even felt a moment's panic. How would I get back to my future?
Writer's today exist in a different world than the ones who came before us. Steinbeck and Poe didn't have to worry about bandwidth. Bronte and Dickenson wouldn't have stopped writing because Google wasn't available.
So I returned to my writer roots last night. I sat down with an old fashioned pen and paper while letting my imagination provide the visuals for this post. I survived my step back into time. My internet problems will be resolved soon. In the meantime I will borrow my computer time and hope my internet friends and colleagues will understand. I will be back to my future in due time.
But what about those historic writers? I'm pretty sure even those guys had issues getting their writing done...