A few weeks ago I tried to get into my late husband's laptop. I thought I was thinking ahead to tax season and it would be a good idea to see what might be in there that I'd need. Instead of taking a leap forward, I took a huge one backwards. Somehow I managed to lock the laptop. This has led to various complications and now I find myself changing my email, scanning old files, and wondering when I'll get back to my current writing project.
Almost exactly a year ago I began this story about a social worker whose traumatic event of her teen years comes back to haunt her and the community. The story flowed from a photograph I saw once, back in the 1970s or possibly earlier, of a number of organized crime figures leaving a motel early in the morning, possibly after a meeting or perhaps just a friendly all-night poker game. (Do they even have those?) The image lingered, the story developed, and I began writing.
Caring for my husband on hospice took over my life, and though I finished the ms, it wasn't really finished. My agent kindly read it and made numerous suggestions, and now it sits in front of me. This is what I expected to be doing this fall, but with the problems with my late husband's computer and the overflow into mine, I'm wondering when I'll ever get to it. Fortunately, the story has remained warm, and even has grown while I've been coping with other things.
So this fall, as the leaves turn gold and red, I'll clear my desk of the pesky details of real life and sink into a world of danger and death, which is preferable to lost emails, locked laptops, and the upcoming tax season.