On thursday my pc died and I have been without it until today. Luckily it was only a little death and the wonderful man at the repair shop, Teifi Computers in Lampeter, fixed it as quickly as he could. Nevertheless I spent the whole weekend worrying about my three novels, umpteen poems and short stories that are stored on my hard drive. Even though I have back up copies, they are somehow not the same as the ones on my pc.
Totally at a loose end without my machine, I tried to enjoy using my notebook but it is just not comfortable, the keyboard is too small and I make too many errors, lose my flow. I was not a happy bunny, I even resorted to pen and paper at one stage. I wonder what I did before I had a computer, how did I spend the day and those interminable evenings? I cannot imagine life now without the separate existence that I live in my head, a life that is peopled with characters of my own imagining. When I am about my usual chores, I find myself thinking about them and what I will have them do next. Their presence takes the slog out of the worst jobs and I often find the bathroom has cleaned itself while I have been considering the motivation for thier actions. Often I am struck with some wonderful new idea and have to leave the washing up and get my ideas down before they trickle away. The washing up is always still there when I drag myself away from my desk.
Writers are lucky, it may be a lonely occupation in terms of human company but the people we dream up are often just as good company. I have been taking walks, not long walks that involve proper boots or socks, just strolls around the neighbourhood. The things I see along the way often find a way into my chapters, little details of everyday life that are timeless, like the fall of the shadow upon a sunny bank or the sound of the stream as it clatters over rocks.