“Welcome, my son. Welcome to the machine.” (Pink Floyd).
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Dave.” (Hal, the evil computer in “2001: A Space Odyssey.”)
Don’t get me wrong — I have nothing against technology. The fact that it seems to have something against me is just another obstacle I need to deal with.
As I’ve often told people with Asian accents as we struggle together over a trans-Pacific phone connection, I’d like to think I’m trainable. The problem is, like too many others of my generation, I tend to be literal.
Whenever I deal with someone who is technologically savvy (and I include my son Jeremy, who has been a great help over the years), I always feel that I’ve missed a step in the instructions.
I don’t want to know computer theory. I probably won’t respond to jargon. Just tell me: “Hit this key. Then hit this key.” And so on.
I love it when something goes wrong with your computer and a message pops up that says: “Error No. 249.”
“Are you sure?” I want to reply. “To me, it really seems more like an Error 519.”
Of course, there is no one to reply to. That pronouncement seems to come from somewhere in deep space, perhaps a black hole.
Computers, to me, are like automobiles. I know how to use them, but I don’t know (or care) how they work, and I don’t know what to do when they don’t.
Unlike cars, however, computers require occasional upgrades. It’s as if you received a notice saying, “For your information, the Interstate highway system has now been upgraded, and your car will no longer be able to drive on it. You must buy a new car.”
The process of editing my first novel became grueling when my editor chose to use “Track Changes.” This software does seem kind of neat, and I was able to click on it and clearly see suggestions and corrections my editor had made. The problem was, my computer wouldn’t let me respond to these notes.
So we finished the edit in little chunks over a too-long period of time, me sitting at a computer in my local public library, surrounded by unemployed people checking the want ads. By the time it was over, my editor and publisher were ready to kill me, and I don’t blame them.
I needed an upgrade, but my computer wouldn’t let me.
Finally, I can’t get used to that subliminal sense of dread that always underlies any creative endeavor on a computer. Anyone who has ever had a story inexplicably wiped away (“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Dave”) knows what I mean.
I envision this inscription on my tombstone: “Here lies Darrell Laurant. He wrote the greatest novel in the history of American literature, but no one ever saw it because his computer ate it.”
OK, so here’s my point, which I have taken a long time to reach. My wife Gail and I are taking a two-week trip this month, during which I probably won’t be sending any more posts. (I’m trying to upgrade my computer so it will watch the house while we’re gone).
This blog can be viewed at snowflakesarise.wordpress.com. The official launch of the “Snowflakes in a Blizzard” project will be April 17. You will notice that my blog is currently unadorned by anything remotely resembling graphics or art, and when we return, I will either try to dress it up or (far more likely) hire someone to do that.
In the interim, though, I would love to get any suggestions. What we will have is a page dedicated to a single book, hopefully (I think the word “hopefully” should be given a grammatical pass and welcomed into the English language, but that’s another blog subject) with pictures of book and author, a bio, a description of the book and “back story” on how it was done, a sample chapter, credit to the editor (editors never get enough credit) and information on where to find it and how to buy it.
I don’t need a video game with flashing, vibrating bells and whistles. I do want it to look nice, and any suggestions toward that end would be appreciated.
And if you look in the upper left corner at the brief description of the blog, you’ll see that the word “writers” has been oddly tagged on to the end. How do I make it go away? Nothing on the site tells me.
Sigh. Have a nice two weeks, Hal.