So out I go to try to finish writing a chapter of The Witch Box. Getting the rest of this book written will be a major artistic challenge for which I’ll need the Lord’s guidance and every bit of wit I can scrape up from my brain. We’re still struggling to upload the pictures of Patty’s car.
I light my cigar; and no sooner does my pen touch the legal pad than a neighbor comes over to chat. She wants to do me a favor, so I can’t say “Go away.” And Patty comes out to join the conversation. I can’t start writing till my cigar is more than halfway finished.
Back indoors, I find I can’t turn my laptop on. It just sits there. Try to find the power button. The various instructionals online all involve taking the computer apart and putting it back together. Boy howdy. All I can think of is that scene in Unfaithfully Yours when Rex Harrison tries to use his record machine and is confronted with incredibly complicated diagrams, plus this cheerful message: “So simple, it practically operates itself.” This is not my cup of tea.
After another 30 minutes of high stress, somehow we get the laptop operating again. I don’t know how. Just don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Also gotta call the property owner next door and see about getting the tree removed from Patty’s car.
Why do I feel like a stretched-out balloon with all the air let out of it?