My computer, a two plus year-old Toshiba laptop, recently died. Well, it didn't completely die. More like it went crazy. It started uninstalling random, rather important programs, like Norton and iTunes, and it has no idea how to access the internet. So, it may not be dead, but it's dead to me.
My good, kind, and dear friend, Eric Dunaway, found a spare netbook floating around his house, so he has agreed to let me borrow it until I can get back on my feet. I've never used a netbook before and I must admit... it's completely adorable. It's so tiny! I think we used to have a TV remote that was bigger.
The reason I need a computer in the first place has little to do with the internet. You see, I'm something of a writer. I write. That's what I do. Except not really. I call myself a writer, but lately I've been focusing more on Facebook statuses than novels. And by "lately" I mean, since I discovered Facebook.
So, thanks to Eric's act of kindness, I am obligated to write.
Truth be told, I love to write, especially when I'm in the zone. I love doing anything when I'm in the zone, but, for me, nothing compares to writing. There's a certain thrill you feel when you sit down and you have no idea what you're going to write, but from the moment of that first curious keystroke you're gone. You cease to exist as a physical form. The rhythmic clicking of the keys is hypnotic. It sends you into your story, into the minds of your characters. It lets you know their thoughts and their motives. It lets you smell their breath and feel the texture of their hair and clothes. Time passes, but you don't notice.
I'm always shocked when I snap out of the writer's trance to find two or three thousand words where, moments before, there was nothing. When you first come back from the zone, you might discover that you're famished or that you really, really need to pee. Your body was sending these urget messages, but you weren't there to receive them. You were in the zone.
Thank you,
Matt Beers
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