Often I’ve been asked for a copy of a long-ago article that was written about something or someone.
Not often have I not been able to accommodate such a request. But there is a several year period, about mid-term of the 29 years that I have been writing, that the possibility has escaped me.
The reason being is that it was stored on a computer that was replaced by a flat screen several years ago, and this older computer, hurt I suppose by its rejection of use, no longer wishes to regurgitate the articles that were so stored orderly within.
I knew that computers could be moody, cantankerous and well deserving of a slap at times, but I didn’t know they would be so downright mean. So much for the crashing of modern technology.
One of the questions that arises quite often is, “Where do you find the time?” My answer to that is, “I don’t find the time – I make it.”
I enjoy toying with the 26 letters of the alphabet, and my “why” answer to that could be blamed, I suppose, on my father’s insight or foresight, whichever or both, who taught me the alphabet backwards at the age of three. I can still spit them out, in correct dyslexic order, faster than most others in the recognized direction of left to right.
“How do you come up with so many different topics?” is another frequent query. The answer to that is not difficult for me. I am fortunate in not having addictions to the day-dreaming quackery of fiction. I abort the untruths and concentrate only on things that I have experienced. I write about everyday happenings – some of which, I know, can be stranger than fiction.
Having no formal education in journalism or reporting has the advantage of allowing me the freedom of writing my thoughts in the manner in which I so see them. I am not funnelled down the deep ruts of correction that encumber most, well-schooled, want-to-be writers. I feel no harm can be done by passing on some of the things that were taught by first-hand experience with my father.
The fact that my writings have ended up in books can be explained not more thoroughly than a retired teacher’s encouraging comment as she cradled three, just-bought, of my four books in the crook of her arm.
In these words, which chiselled deep in my memory, she simply stated, “Books, you know, carry the seeds of thought across the deserts of generations yet unborn.”
Wow. What a thought! Do you think there is a writer anywhere worldwide who could utter anything more than “Amen, amen to that”? I think not.
From the dusty depths of my chuckle bucket this week comes this: On a sign at a car dealership is this suggestion: “The best way to get back on your feet – miss a car payment.” On a fence: “Salesmen welcome! Dog food is expensive!”
Take care, ‘cause we care.
barrie@barriehopkins.ca
519-986-4105