WHEN WRITERS RETURN FROM THE DEAD: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

Two weeks from posting an obituary, I was tapped on the shoulder by the deceased and informed that she's still alive. Reports of her death would've been greatly exaggerated.

*

I've published an obituary on this blog before, but that one featured news of zombie hordes and time travel. Try not to take it seriously if you stumble upon it down in the archives.

*

What to say of this highly embarrassing incident before me? Well, it still lies a fortnight ahead of me and I've cancelled it. Suppose I'd published it, though?

   Writer fakes death to hear what people thought of her at her own memorial service.

   They thought she was really helpful on the writing-front.

   Writer sneaks away, blushing, and is then arrested for faking her own death.

   Worth the jail-time, she says, dragged away in handcuffs.

*

Now I must write that embarrassing e-mail. You know the one. Oh, hey, still alive I see.

   It's better than writing that embarrassing blog post. You know the one. Oh, hey, I told the world you were dead. And. Er. Well. I said you were really helpful on the writing-front. That counts for something. I'll write to you in jail. You'll be out in no time.

*

In researching this blog post, I discovered that it isn't a criminal act to fake your own death where this writer lives. The precise term is pseudocide.

   Death by pseudonym. That definitely sounds like a writer's thing.

WRITING MAINTENANCE: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

My mouse foamed at the mouth. Or perhaps my computer foamed at the mouse. Either way, I sensed a spot of writing maintenance coming on.
   The horrible kind.

(My keyboard looks cleaner when photographed with the flash off.)

   What kind of maintenance? That oh no, I don't want to shake crumbs out of my keyboard kind. Yes. That.
   Putting the EW in QWERTY.
   This time, though, I was concerned about the mouse. An optical mouse feels sluggish and unresponsive. Is it the plague? I believe it is the plague. Nay.
   Aye, the plague it is.
   Nay, it cannot be. The optical mouse is not prone to the dread disease.
   We must operate upon the creature's innards.
   Nay.
   Aye!
   All those in favour, reach for the screwdriver.

*

And so...
   Writers, look after yourselves. Scribblers, secure your files. Save your data, and save in more than one location. Wordsmiths, maintain, fix, or replace vital equipment.
   Those of you writing books on your interactive smart rings, sentient piercings, or wifi-capable coffee mugs should take the keyboard/mouse advice and adapt accordingly.

*

What was inside my mouse? Er.
   By that, I mean ew.
   There were fragments of toffee. Am I a passionate consumer of toffee? Coffee, yes. Toffee, no. The mouse was upset by fragments of a toffee-like substance. I'm going to draw a veil over the rest of that scene.