Eleanor Tatum

Staring at my first city-girl vegetable harvest I developed a cure for my headache. It went away, although the actual cure might have been breakfast and two aspirins. I cut into the fruit-debatable vegetable and tasted. The visual evaluation produced low results. Quite ugly. However, the taste demanded that the buds on my tongue to race north to my minimal brain then south to my romantic heart.

My sleepy brain asked, “How could this be?” I planted a sprig of light green roughage and given time, water, and southern heat it metamorphosed into this glorious creation. My heart proclaimed from its hidden parts, “There is a God.”

Another type of vegetation jabs at my writer’s consciousness. Within my creation station my swamp stories grow plentiful Spanish moss. It often houses stinging red bugs which, dear reader, is another story. This morning it blooms into Gray Lace, my fourth book. It’s currently metamorphosing from a parasite to a novel. Given feeble spurts of time and a romantic heart it’ll be a glorious creation.

Enough!

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We’re fortunate enough to own two homes. One we share with the Credit Union, but they never visit. When writing a draft of Gray Lace, my fourth book, at The Big House, (big as in bigger than the little house), I did save my work. I did, but I failed to email it to myself. Windows 8 will not let allow me to save on a flash drive. I adore flash drives. They create in my mind mysteries and adventures of intrigue about governmental secrets.

I digress.

I failed to email my work, remember? When we arrived at our wonderful but tiny shared-with-our-credit-union Little House, my adorable pink Dell lap top, currently on Windows 7, does not have my work. My inspirational flash drive only has my 54,000 word count, while I noted in my writer’s journal that I’d reached 54,600 when I last wrote in The Big House.

Should I try to remember those 600 words and take a chance of “messing up” the manuscript or waste the weekend and not write. Wait, I could just draft the next chapter and let all these Windows get dirty.

Enough!

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