I am not referring to writer’s block, which is like a familiar old relative who drops in unannounced and eats your snacks. No, what I am talking about is something far more sinister, which is when the tools of your trade decide to go on strike. And without any prior notice.
In the prehistoric era (also known as the time before emails), writers faced simpler catastrophes when the typewriter ribbons ran out or the A4 paper disappeared mysteriously or maybe the fax machines froze mid-transmission, as if offended by something one had written.
In those days, one could still pick up the phone and dictate the piece to the editor, who would sigh deeply but comply. It was neither elegant nor sustainable, but it worked.
However, today’s editors expect a Word file, named correctly, sent before the deadline, and with no lame excuses involving planetary alignments.
I must confess that I have been outrageously lucky for over three decades of my writing career where my laptops have behaved and my passwords have mostly remembered themselves.
But I knew this streak would not last forever, so when misfortune struck, it did so with dramatic flair and my laptop crashed while I was in a remote island, the kind that is featured in glossy travel brochures, where people smile constantly, and nobody appears to work.
And with one sudden blackout, my entire writing universe collapsed – with notes, drafts, deadlines, all trapped inside the sleek aluminium coffin.
We take our gadgets for granted, and I treat my MacBook much like a moody teenager. When it misbehaves, I ignore it, and hope it wakes up refreshed and apologetic the next morning. This parenting technique worked brilliantly with our child and, until now, with my laptop. But this time it refused to awake, and my deadline began looming like an unpaid credit card bill.
My husband, always practical in moments of crisis, suggested I use the desktop computer in the hotel’s business centre. I resisted. Who wants to be seen slogging while staying at a resort facing the magnificent Atlantic Ocean? Besides, I was convinced the business centre was a farce, you know, like calorie-free desserts.
By day four, denial gave way to desperation, and I briefly considered writing the entire piece on my smartphone, but the screen was too small and the autocorrect too ambitious. “Things” became “thongs.” “Mother” transformed into “mugger” and my column was ready to accidentally qualify as crime fiction or adult literature.
Finally, I approached the hotel staff to direct me to their business centre. They stared as if I had requested for a private submarine! Subsequently, the manager escorted me through the sun-drenched lobby into the forgotten interiors of the building. The room was dim, neglected and housed a lone computer that looked like it had retired in 2003. I asked for more light.
“Señora, why don’t you sit on the beach? It is flooded with sunlight,” the manager suggested kindly.
“My laptop crashed. I have to write a column,” I told him.
“Aha! Do you know where the light switches are?” he asked me.
“I have never been here,” I answered.
“Neither has anybody else,” he muttered.
“Sorry?” I requested him to speak up.
“So am I Madam, so am I,” he sympathised.
Read Nickunj Malik’s last article: Tree of Life
