Last Monday I came home to find my PC trying to boot up. This was a little odd as it was switched off when I left. I fiddled about but nothing I could do could induce it to switch on. After a lot of diagnosis the next day, including buying a new power supply (which I no longer need - if you're interested), it was pronounced dead at 1200 hours. It was a little like mourning a friend. That computer got me through a lot of the last year as my window on the world and my source of entertainment. No wonder it was worn out. The unusual heat finally did it in along with a failing power supply. Crispy chips are nice when they aren't silicon.
Today I'm waiting for its replacement to arrive. Not something I'd planned on getting as I crawl out of debt induced by unemployment and exacerbated by having to pay huge repair bills on my car. It cost me the same amount as the number of the beast. I choose to think of this as an amusing omen for good.
Fortunately, I had done a backup not long before and so most of my data is safe and recoverable. All that I really need from the harddrive, if it still works, is my savegames and and the story I'd started working on.
I don't know if this will make it into Adocentyn, but I'm imagining it set during a holiday my narrator/hero has and perhaps the first glimmer that his childhood is catching up with him. Taking place in the deep south of Italy, I'm taking an almost voodoo spin on the Tarantella; a dance once done to rid young women of the poisonous effects of the bites of a Tarantula. I think I've got it mapped out, but I wrote a great opening paragraph extolling the ennui of the early 21st century. While a re-write may do it good, sometimes you never capture the same intent twice.
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