Many writers have shared their thoughts with the public:

"There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you." - Beatrix Potter

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." - Anaïs Nin

"Sharing your writing, being enlarged by others' writing, is what makes you feel famous." - Gretchen Bernabei

"Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth." - Edna Ferber

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." - Ben Franklin

"One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones to form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment." - Hart Crane

"There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are." - W. Somerset Maugham

A Dot Com Romance

The morning after I retired – well, was made redundant really – I sprang out of bed with my shoulders squared and fire in my eyes. I’d spent a miserable night with all the phrases they’d used going round in my head – 'the need for young ideas', 'have to keep up with technology', 'on the cutting edge' etc. Didn’t loyalty and twenty years of experience count for anything? Well, I’d show them.

That very morning I stomped down to my local computer shop – Ed’s Pcs, and said to Ed, “Let me take a gander at the latest of everything you’ve got, and if you’ll throw in that old desk with the swivel return, the pull out keyboard shelf, and the built-in space for the speakers, we’re in business.”

“Lady,” he said, “you’ve got yourself a deal.” He paused for a moment as he checked out my middle-aged figure, my desperate and dateless eyes, and my salt and pepper hair, and frowned. “But are you sure you can handle it?”

”Sonny, just get it installed and running by the weekend; and by the way, can you recommend a good Internet provider?”

“Yahoo,” he said. It sounded like he meant, I’ve got a live one here.

Well, by Saturday evening I was all set up – and I mean that in the nicest possible way. My computer had arisen from its foam packing like a goddess ascending from the depths of the ocean. It sat on my large desk and completely dominated the room.

Ed talked about Kilobytes and Megabytes, Hard drives, Floppies and Discs, but after a while my brain was floppy too and my eyes started to glaze over. He must have seen this because he slowed down and said, “You see how simple it is? But in case you have any difficulties, here’s an instruction manual.” He plonked down on the desk a formidable-looking tome the size of a telephone book. My computer bounced slightly, but soon settled down again. I decided it was already beginning to feel quite at home.

“If all else fails,” he said, preparing to leave, “ring me at the shop.”

“Do you want all these boxes and packing?” I asked hopefully.

“No thanks. They come with the computer.” Then he was gone, slamming the door behind him.

I gave a sigh of relief and for a minute I was convinced I heard my computer say, “Thank goodness,” as it settled itself further back on the desk.

All day Sunday I played with the computer, occasionally opening the manual willy-nilly and reading from the optimistic text. By this time, I had given my computer a name – Venus. She was decidedly feminine.

On Monday I got on to the Internet and registered an email address, dorothy@yahoo.com. I discovered Google and decided to explore the chat rooms. My love life so far had been a series of unmitigated disasters; however, the anonymity I could now embrace, made me feel pretty reckless. Straight away, I struck up a conversation with a fella who seemed quite nice, but I had the impression it wasn’t really me doing all this.

“What’s your name?” he said

“Dorothy, Dot for short. What’s yours?”

“Dimitry Cominos, but don’t call me Dim for short. My friends call me Commy or Com.”

“So,” I said, searching for something to say, “this is a dot.com. conversation.”

”Dorothy, I like you already. Tell me about yourself. What do you do and what do you look like?”

“I don’t do anything at the moment, and I’m a tall, blue-eyed blonde.” I said, lying through my teeth.

“Well, we’re made for each other, because I’m tall, dark and handsome. And you’ll be surprised to learn, I own a fruit shop.”

Why did I suddenly get a mental picture of a short, fat man with greasy hair and an apron?

The introductions over, we had a bit of a chat and eventually he said, “Well, early start at the markets in the morning; must go. Let’s talk tomorrow night.”

The upshot of it all was that we slid into quite a friendship, and we got into the habit of talking three or four times a week. Pretty soon I didn’t care if he was tall, dark and handsome or short, fat and ugly, because he was a very witty guy, and I found a humour in myself I didn’t know I possessed. As things worked out, one night a funny thing happened on the way to the bathroom.

I was staggering down the hall, half asleep, and I glanced into the spare bedroom, which I now referred to casually as my computer room. To my amazement, my monitor was lit up like a Christmas tree. I was sure I had closed the system down when I finished talking to Com, so I entered the room. A message blazed from the screen, but the words were not mine. Venus was having a conversation all of her own.

“Dimmy,” said my computer coyly, “Why is it that, like all males, in order to get your attention, you first have to be turned on?”

“Venus,” came the reply, “I am completely switched on, but it is my view that, like all females, no one but your maker could understand what goes on inside your illogical workings.”

“And it’s typical of your sex that you may have a lot of data, but you still haven’t got a clue.”

“Venus!” The words jerked across the screen. “I know I said something stupid last night, but do you have to latch on to every little mistake I make and store it in your long-term memory? I had the impression we sent all that to the recycle bin.”

“Well,” came from my computer, “I was only asking your advice on a little technical hitch, but like a lot of men, when you’re supposed to help solve problems, most of the time you are the problem.”

“Look,” said the other, “Dot and Com are completely committed to us. In fact, they love us. I’m sure, that in typical female fashion, you would be happy if we were able to get Dorothy to buy some new accessories for you. How would you like a new cordless mouse?”

“A free roaming mouse? That’s the last thing I want. I like my mice kept exactly where I can see them, thank you.”

“Venus, I’m surprised to learn that a little old mouse would alarm you. I took you for a more liberated woman than that.”

I could see Dimmy was skating on thin ice.

“Be careful Buster,” said Venus. “I am a thoroughly modern lady. You simply worry about Com. He’s a typical male, and he might realise, as men are apt to do, that if he had waited a little longer before settling on you, he might have got a more up-to-date model.”

“Okay! Okay! Quit firing your bullets at me. The pipes from your screen saver are starting to crash into each other. Calm down baby and activate your Window Washer.”

“Don’t baby me or I’ll cut and delete you. Your modem operandi may be bigger and flatter than mine, but my firewall has lately been refreshed and yours needs rebooting.”

“Ah Venus, can’t we merely open a new folder? If you want a fight, let’s send in our paper-clip men to do battle; though mine has such wanky eyes, I am of the opinion he would simply turn his little bike around and flash off.”

“Come into the modern world, Dimmy. Clippies haven’t been on computers for more than a decade.”

At this point, I realised that my computer and Com’s machine were having a bit of a brawl. Could this be love? I left them to their little spat and toddled back to bed.

Com and I continued to talk regularly, and our computers also logged on after we’d gone to bed. I didn’t say anything to Com because I didn’t want him to be getting up in the middle of the night to check. He needed his sleep on account of having to go to the markets early every morning. We were getting quite fond of each other. Then one night he asked me if we might meet sometime.

I was panic-stricken; this might be where it all became another perfect catastrophe. However, I found myself saying, “Yes,” and we made a time and place and agreed that we’d both wear something red. I rehashed the description of myself I’d given him and wondered what I should do. I couldn’t do much about the tall, blue-eyed bit, but I scooted off to the hairdresser and had my hair dyed blonde.

Later that night, I staggered past my computer room and saw the screen was lit up. When I snuck in to check on them, Venus was on the point of saying to Dimmy, “Do you have any notion that we might meet some time? Will Dot and Com ever take the plunge?”

With a warm fuzzy sensation, I looked at my big old computer desk with the swivel return and decided there might be room for two machines there. I patted Venus on the mouse pad and said, “Any time now, Venus old girl; any time.”