Have you ever pictures a lovely older woman, perhaps retired, wearing bifocals, patiently piecing together a mystery bit by bit while baking pies and dispensing advice?
If you have, excellent! You’ve discovered the opposite of my writing process.
The best writing happens in Dagobah, the 1984 Systopia, the black plague, and hostile alien inventions, although I do believe that if you’re just about to die and don’t have time to write anything down.
But it’s seldom that bad.
When we’re all out of money and I need quarters for coffee, I put on my most respectable clothing and speak directly to my contact, who has a thirdhand time-and-sort-of-space machine and I ask him to transport me to sometime when the World was hostile, but not immediately deadly to humans.
He always sets the machine for five minutes, which is about all the time I can handle. Some time back, I fixed him up with an affair with my wife (you’re welcome, honey!) – so he’s never tempted to put it up to, say, seven or eight minutes more.
(My wife likes him better, but who doesn’t? He still doesn’t want to deal with all the crying and grief.)
I grip my pack, my camera, and my notes.
And as I take my thousandth step into the portal, I suddenly have a thought. I KNOW my wife.
WHAT crying and grief?
And then I’m through, and instead of dealing with a social life, taxes, technology, illness, and change, I’m almost immediately eaten by raptors. That never happened before, but they’re smart, like cats; they must have realized the glow was their ‘food’ button.
It’s not a fun way to go, but it sure is quick. And it saves me an argument with my wife.
And paleontologists will find some REALLY interesting bones.
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Find me, paid or free as you choose, at patreon.com/thatjeffmach
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