In the past week I've gone in search of two books and have found neither. But I can't recall if I gave the books away, stashed them somewhere inside a book case, or left the books behind (under a car seat, under the basement sofa, etc.).
And last night I was beside myself trying to locate an essay. I'd written a query letter to an editor of an outdoor magazine, touting an article I'd written over a year ago. I knew I had written the piece, that it was not my imagination or a dream, and I thought the article would be perfect for this publication. The editor responded quickly in the affirmative, telling me, "Send your writing pronto, Bub!"
But when I went to find the essay on one of my (three) computers . . . it was not to be found among the thousands of Word.doc files. I panicked. I was pacing the house like a wild animal. I sifted through stacks of essays stashed inside my writer's closet. I searched my two filing cabinets stuffed full of printed work . . . most of it identified by hanging folder tabs.
"What are you looking for?" Becky asked me around 10 p.m. "Why don't you watch the World Series?"
"I'm searching for my brains," I said. "I think I lost them."
"Join the club," she said. "Keep looking."
My anxiety sent me back to my floppy collection . . . hundreds and hundreds of floppy disks that I have crammed into small cardboard boxes atop my writing desk. I must have searched two dozen disks before, Shazam!!!, I discovered the essay in question.
Great essay! All of that digital information, amazingly, still lingering there on the little 3-inch slice of technology. But why, I wondered, had I not saved it onto a hard drive?
Perhaps it doesn't matter now, the essay has safely made the journey into the editor's waiting and able hands. But me . . . they might as well stuff me in a tube and shoot me into space.
My mind is out there somewhere.
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