And then…..

From Latin praeposterus (“with the hinder part before, reversed, inverted, perverted”), from prae (“before”) + posterus (“coming after”).

It’s latin for ‘ass backwards’ and I kinda like it. It’s the name I gave to this laptop when I set it up. Nothing about it makes sense.

It is a 10″ screen and it’s about two inches thick. It has one USB 1.0 port on it, a CD drive, and a 3.5 inch disk drive. Yeah, it’s hardcore.

You know why I like it? Because of the keyboard. It feels so good to use and it responds better than any keyboard I have ever used. It’s small. No touch pads. It’s slow, so all I can do it write on it. And, because most of all, it keeps me honest.

“I’m going downstairs to write,” I’ll tell my wife. And that will be the intention. Until I get down there.

And then I’ll check my email.

And then follow a link in the email to a website.

And then so long as my browser is open, I might as well check Facebook, then Twitter, then re-blog a bunch of cool images on Tumblr, then go to Reddit and make sure that all the links go blue like they are supposed to.

And then when I am all warmed up an in the mood to write, it’s midnight and I have to be up for work in five and a half hours. At that point, I know if I start a story or a blog entry that all of my juices will start to flow and I will sneak into bed for around two in the morning and get up for five thirty to be at work for six thirty. I’m not as young as I used to be, and I convince myself the right thing to do is go to bed immediately and pick up where I left off tomorrow night.

And then, when my wife asks me the next night how much writing I got done the night before, I’ll say “oh, a page or so. Not much. Just a story idea.”

So, ‘preposterous’ is going to keep me honest. I haven’t even put my desktop together yet. All of my monitors and my CPU are sitting on my other desk, waiting for me.

I have a small little lamp on my left with a nice, compact flourescent bulb. The finish on the lamp compliments the desk I am using, which was my maternal grandfather’s. In front of the lamp is the book I am reading. To the right are two books with frame picture on top of them. The one book is my Bodley Head copy of “Ulysses” and the other is a first edition book of short stories by Ernest Hemingway called “The Fifth Column and The First Forty Nine Stories”. The framed picture is one taken by my mother in law and given to me. It is a picture of Ernest Hemingway’s office at his home in Key West. It’s not a postcard. She took the picture and my wife framed it for me.

Behind the stack of books and the picture is a ceramic pen holder that my wife made for me. It is filled with black china markers, a sharpie, a steel pen with ROBERT stenciled into it. I use the pen to update the ledger that is there, just in front of the stack of books and the picture.

It’s a daily journal manufactured and printed by Blueline. I like it. I highly recommend it to anyone. It is not year specific, just the day of the year. I don’t write stories in the journal. That’s not what I bought it for. I originally bought it two and a half years ago when I started my new job. I wanted it to be how I managed my day. There were never enough pages to record what it was I did all day at work, so I filed it away with the rest of my supplies.

And then I found it when I set up preposterous.

And then I found a use for it.

I turn on preposterous and I start to type. It doesn’t have to be a story. It doesn’t have to be anything. Not right away. It just has to be honest.

And then when I am done, I save my work and lock my computer screen.

And then, I use my monogrammed pen to update my Blueline journal on how many words I wrote.

And then I go upstairs. Sometimes to straight to bed. Sometimes I have bread and peanut butter or maybe a cookie and a glass of milk. Sometimes I take my book upstairs and I fall asleep reading on the couch. Those times, Mell calls to me once, twice, maybe three times and most times not as many as four times, to “come up to bed, please”. In my sleep addled state, it sounds to me like she’s yelling at me, nagging at me, and I am unintentionally sleep-nasty to her as I come to bed. I apologize for it later, if I remember that I was nasty.

And then I go to sleep.

And then I wake up for five thirty, go to work for six thirty.

And then I start to think about what else I can write about when I sit down to preposterous the next night.

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