For months now, I have a routine for writing. It works but not well. I pack up everything I need–phone, computer, mouse, plugs, extension cord, to name most of it–and go someplace to get on the internet. Oh, the places I’d go to find internet.
Yes, trying to keep up with the world has been a struggle. To say the least. But. (Gotta love a but when there’s a struggle). But today I am sitting in my chair in my living room with my currently favorite quilt on my lap and my favorite drink at my side. Wait, and I have internet! My own (not stolen) private, secure, working internet. Yes, I am a little excited. And it’s fast, though wired in. (I can’t figure out why wireless internet requires a wire, but I ain’t complaining!)
However, it costs a small fortune every month. I convinced Richard that I am safer at home than out in a field somewhere. Or, as we say in Louisiana, in the middle of nowhere. He must have gotten tired of my whining, complaining, fussing, baggering–you get the idea. Between us, it’s taken about a week of working to get to this point, which is normal in 90% of households in the U.S. (That’s my statistic, and no science or math was used to calculate it. I just figured we were somewhere in the bottom 10% because that’s where rural people–in deep nowheres–live, for the most part. Solitude has its costs.
(Now to figure out the wireless thing. But that’s another post. If I figure it out!)