I'd planned to spend the upcoming weekend buried in the romance novel I was writing on my home computer.  I hummed a little aria as I strolled down the hall to the spare bedroom that serves as my office.  Two whole days with no pressing engagements, no visiting children, nothing to do but wallow in the joys of writing.  I looked forward to it the way a chocolate junkie looks forward to a pan full of double-fudge brownies with mocha icing.

Snatches of plot waltzed through my mind as I opened the door.  Elena, my heroine, was fleeing the Apaches who'd held her captive for nine years.  She'd just tumbled into a dry wash and been bitten by a rattlesnake.  Now she was about to meet the hero.  I could hardly wait to start the next chapter. 

Then I saw my computer.

I'd left it on earlier, as I often do.  But now the familiar green characters were gone from the screen.  In their place, a dead, dark hold stared back at me like an eye socket in a giant skull.

How do you perform CPR on a PC?  I bent over the keyboard, my heart in my throat.  There had to be a secret, some miracle macro that would make everything all right again.  I jiggled all the keys.  I tried to reboot.  I prayed.  Nothing happened.

I slithered under the desk to check the surge protector.  The red switch was on, but nobody was home upstairs.  Desperate now, I jiggled the cords and plugs at both ends.  No luck.  Everything was intact.

Now what?

I glanced at the clock.  It was 4:47 on a Friday afternoon.  Why weren't computer repair shops linked to 911, I wondered as I ruffled wildly through the phone book.  Time was running out and so was my lovely, productive weekend.

There's only one shop in the county that fixes my brand of computer.  Hal, the owner, knows me well.  I bake him oatmeal cookies.  I send him birthday cards.  Good computer repair people are worth cultivating.

"It sounds like the power unit," he said.  "Bring it over."

I broke all posted speed limits on the way to the shop.  Good old Hal, I thought as I squealed into the parking lot.  He'll pop in that power unit and I'll be back in business!

As I was unloading, I noticed Hall had made a few changes.  His shop had expanded.  He had a new door and a spiffy new sign.  I staggered inside, to be greeted by a dark-haired stranger in a three-piece suit.  I nearly dropped my computer when I realized it was Hal in a new toupee.

"Just put it on that counter," he said.  "With luck, I should get to it by Wednesday."

"Wednesday!" I wailed, picturing poor Elena, trapped in a pit of vituperative vipers.  "What about the oatmeal cookies?  What about the birthday cards?"

Hal's smile glittered with professional integrity.  "Sorry.  There are seventeen people ahead of you."

Clutching my lifeless machine, I pondered raising the stakes.  Chocolate chips in the oatmeal, maybe.  It wouldn't do any good.  Hal had the look of a man who couldn't be bought.

I gave up.  I signed the paperwork and slunk home to the bleak prospect of a computerless weekend.

And what was that weekend like?  Let me tell you.

I returned my overdue library books.  I polished the vacant spot on my desk.  I spent quality time with my houseplants.  I made double-fudge brownies with mocha icing and ate them all myself.  I watched reruns of "Murder, She Wrote" and wondered how Angela Lansbury could turn out books on that antiquated typewriter.  I thought, Gee, this is how normal people live-people who aren't hopelessly hooked on macros and disk drives and blinking cursors.

In short, I gained a whole new perspective.  I discovered there really is such a thing as life without a computer!

But it's not the life for me.  If my next book sells, I may buy a second PC as a spare.  That, or, see if Hal is single.