I recently spent the day fighting a computer virus on one of our computers, and remained fairly calm most of the morning, but by afternoon, when I realized this virus would likely defeat my somewhat limited abilities, I became quite angry. First, I was heated over the time I lost, but then, I became enraged for the lost potential of whoever engineered this particular worm.
As a thunderstorm grumbled through, I fear my (somewhat colorful) language provided a poignant counter-tempo to the growling overhead. Then, after a particularly virulent crash from on high, I laughed.
The jerk-savant who created the malware or virus, whatever the heck it was, wanted my rage. Well, I hate to break it to you sweetheart, but if you happen to read this, my anger was short lived. Instead, as the growling storm swept past our home and a rainbow crested over the eastern plains, I found myself pitying you. Someday, when you look back on your life, and your child gazes at you with adoring eyes, what story will you relate? How can you ever explain this part of your life? Worse yet, what happens much later, when the end of your life is near?
Let me explain a few things. First of all, you are not Neo, saving mankind from evil. I know that’s hard to accept, but trust me, you’re not a hero, and soon I hope you realize how you can fruitfully spend your time, efforts, and your undoubted brilliance. There’s so much to be accomplished in this world, and instead you choose to lurk in the sewer. I hope the stench soon drives you out and you find not only a new life, but some way to make amends, to ask forgiveness. I realize that is optimistic, but you see, writers have to be optimistic. We work in an incredibly tough profession, where rejection is the norm.
Ah, but those hours I lost playing your game. I’d planned on drafting and sending out six to eight queries, and instead, accomplished nothing. But here is my gift to you, along with this blog. I give you those hours I lost, to claim as your own. That way, since I give them to you freely, you cannot take any pleasure in thinking that you took them from me.
I’ve already delivered the computer to a geek to have your thumbprint removed. Poof! It shall be gone. Now, I’ll write my queries and spend time outside, enjoying the kiss of fall weather and high skies. I’ll consider my next chapter and that brings me great joy. Oh, and I might spend another moment or two pitying you, but I should caution you about that pity. You see, over the decades speculative fiction writers have predicted the future with an alarming rate of success, and I don’t foresee joy in your future, or any true satisfaction. Alas for you. Alas for a lost day.