Scrambled is also an option.
Years of my life went into producing my brainchild, my novel, and many more years trying to find a publisher. I even survived the editing process that ensued – and only another contracted author can appreciate what demanding brainwork that is. As for getting myself registered as a non-resident alien with the IRS, let’s not even go there.
I thought I’d done the hard part. I was wrong.
The hard part comes now; it is the grilling that is making my brain sizzle like melted cheese, having to confront the horror of self-promotion and doing so using unfamiliar applications in new technology.
Don’t get me wrong. I adore computers. I need to make that clear before I am accused of being a dinosaur who thinks a browser is some old biddy out shopping or that booting up a computer is an act of violence. As a writer, I just love Word and being able to send submissions via email. I have also learnt to use the track changes feature, so essential for the editing process and equally important for my career as a proofreader. Meanwhile, Facebook has introduced me to a whole new network of friends and useful contacts.
The brain-strain now is caused by those applications I would never have bothered with were it not required in order to run with the big dogs in the land of Internet. Sites like WordPress, for example, which is like the inner workings of some eccentric mind, or some cyberspace labyrinth I spend valuable time wandering about in, always getting nowhere but back at the dashboard with a heavy heart.
As for the brain-twisting Twitter, why, when it is so much simpler than Facebook, does it baffle me so? Who is talking to whom and about what? Why does my tweet button only work in Internet Explorer (which takes weeks to load)? Why have those Twitter tutorials I watched on You Tube failed to leave an impression on the mush between my ears?
My dreams lately have been a series of weird kaleidoscopic movies directed by Dali, a sort of Carol’s Adventures in Wonderland. Is it because my brain is having to process far too much new information in too short a space of time, while my age means I have less grey matter to process it with?
Fellow authors all seem so computer savvy, switched on, and hyperlinked to everything. They flit through cyberspace like enchanted butterflies, sporting their colourful websites like shimmering wings. And from my waxy chrysalis, filled with the soup of confusion, I watch them soar – but I live in hope that one day I too may fly.