Exodus 35:35
King James Version
35 Them hath he filled with wisdom of heart,
to work all manner of work,
of the engraver,
and of the cunning workman,
and of the embroiderer,
in blue,
and in purple,
in scarlet,
and in fine linen,
and of the weaver,
even of them that do any work,
and of those that devise cunning work.
It was downright embarrassing.
Still, he got writing done with his laptop that only had less than one gigabyte of memory.
Your android’s got at least 32x his memory.
But you know how writers are.
Spiff couldn’t care less.
He’s not gonna lie; he’s broke.
And all he could afford was that laptop for almost a steal.
Thing is, suffer the memory.
But that’s how you test a writer’s determination.
One gig or less, you still get your gig done.
So, the dude wrote and wrote, and deleted and deleted.
Nah, he didn’t delete his work.
He had to delete files, as his laptop was cranking up, burping.
Occasionally complaining of indigestion.
He had to delete files, making sure he didn’t go below 50 megabytes.
Pitiful?
You bet.
But you’re no writer if you’re finicky.
You just write.
You don’t have a computer?
Write on paper.
You don’t have money?
Write on paper.
You have a bit of money?
Go to the internet café, and write for an hour.
Write really fast, though.
Meter’s runnin’.
That’s how real writers are crafted.
From real hardship.
Writers who’ve had it the easy way are suspect.
Not fair.
How can they write of angst, if they haven’t had any?
They’re counterfeit.
Such are Spiff’s declarations of his brand of art.
If you can hack it, using less than one gig of memory, you’re truly a writer.
Let others laugh.
You’ll buy them sparkling champagne when you get your first gig from that one gig.
For now, you labor it.
You sweat it out.
And you don’t swear at your one-gig laptop.
He’s gonna up and leave, mind you.
Build him up.
Say something like, “We can do this, bro!”
Just you watch.
He’s gonna show those teras a thing or two.
And here’s the thing.
Won’t you get a kick from creating something, from almost nothing?
Smiling to yourself, knowing they’ve been had by a gig.
How else does a writer get work done?
Get some humor into your system.
Laugh at how laughable you are.
Laugh at how ridiculous people are.
Laugh at how silly everyone is.
Laugh at how crazy the world really is.
Laugh at how spoiled many really are.
You’ve got to laugh.
There’s nothing else to do but laugh, and write.
And dream of that champagne you’re gonna buy your friends.
All those who laughed at you.
Because you thought you could write.
And worse, because you thought you could squeeze longevity out of your 1 gig tool.
Of course, one day, Spiff’s 1 gig died.
It simply couldn’t go on.
He had squeezed the life out of it.
It died an honourable death.
So, he gave it a decent burial.
MORE short stories here.
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