Me no stupid, me no silly, me hing oan tae ma daddy's willy

Writers, when was the last time you looked in your documents folder?  Cleaned it out, even?  I've spent the entire afternoon doing that, and not before time for I never have on this computer before, and I've had it for over two years now - and as someone who's constantly writing, that's a lotta lotta slush, and I still have my old computer to go through; many stories on there that I keep meaning to resurrect.  Another day.

All I know is that every time I wanted to open my Prickly Scots manuscript in Word, that I had to plough through a whole plethora of stuff even using the 'finder' option on my iMac that's supposed to make it easy.   But still, when a hundred copies of it exist, all with similar titles, it can get a bit confusing.  So what do I do?  I take the time to determine which are no longer current, save them somewhere else, a new folder created purely for Prickly Scots books, and then I dropped the originals in the trash.  'Hah, ya bastards', I say maniacally, but still wise enough not to take the trash out yet; ye-es been so burnt before with that, that St Pauls admitted me for two weeks, treating me with cold baths three times a day.  And sure enough, when I tried to open those files, the computer told me in that sanctimonious arrogant voice that may or may not have been real, that I couldn't cos they were in the trash.  So, after rooting through that - a task that rather unpleasantly reminded me of my impoverished childhood - I reinstated them and then had the bright idea to start afresh; allocating simple names that denote each version of them, whether for Kindle or Smashwords, as well as numbering the parts I, II and I & II - so six in all.  "Hah ya bastards," I say again, still not trusting to empty the trash; trust issues having stuck to my shoe from the murky trail that led up to the path of my life obviously; long since relying only on my own direction.

But, as I was doing this, what I found was a metaphorical treasure chest, and being a little bit obsessive compulsive (but in a good way, apparently) I couldn't stop there.  No, I went through each and every document containing the most obscure titles, which of course weren't titles at all, but the first few words of the document that I had never named (although there was a piece I wrote entitled.  Scooby Doo, a Ménage et trois and the Coconut Organs - a travel story about the Seychelles in the Indian Ocean).  Ahem.  Won't be doing that from hereon in, and in fact I've already named this blog's document, so I can recognise it instantly in the future.  For that's what I found; tons of blog articles, enzines, short story entries, complaint letters (my, I am extremely good at those; I even scared myself) nasty letters to my neighbours (well, he was neglecting his dog) letters to the SPCA, smart comebacks to various online sites and forums, absolutely pathetic submission letters for my works (remember the days we all thought we needed agents?  'Hah, ya bastards.') Millions of poems, tons of reviews that I've saved from all my little pieces that I realise are flying free all through the Internet, my college writing notes (very methodically transcribed, I have to say - impressive - or anal retentive, one of the two, either way I was obviously a brown noser.)  Even other people's manuscripts, some of which I had to really concentrate hard on to make sure they weren't mine at all, and some from pseudonyms who are me, but for 'whom'  I use different voices (hence not immediately recognising them.)  Wow!  There were so, so many chapters from my books, the same ones, edited over and over and over all in separate documents from the one before, so many, many copies of my books and again individual chapters and excerpts from those same chapters.  Projects I've started, and keep meaning to come back to, countless documents with 'ideas' and things I've heard in passing, or that occurred to me at some point, and which I never seem to consult, and a lot more to boot (which I'm surprised my computer was able to, given how heavily laden it was).  But double that; I remember making the very unwise choice once upon a time, to have Word automatically create a back up copy of anything I create, and I still haven't found how to reverse, so I guess I have a back up of this blog too now.  But it's my mission now to find that bastard thing and get it switched off as well, before it all starts piling up again.

Now, what about the trash, I hear you scream, well as we say in Scotland (or, at least we did) about a man and his son jumping out of an aircraft, for whatever reason, with only one parachute - or maybe it was jumping from a block of flats -  but anyhoo... 'Me no stupid, me no silly, me hing oan tae ma daddy's willy) ooh, good title for this blog,  ye-es, that'll be sure to bring a few new people to my rambling... hmmm.... but now if I rename this, I'll have two copies with different titles.  See the problem?  So feeling sanctimonious myself now, already decided to blag on this blog about the fact that not only have I cleaned my house this week due to the outrageously long time my housekeeper has gone away on holiday for, I cleaned out my computer too. 

I also had the smarts to find some blank cd's to make copies of all my books, no cold baths for me this time, ya bastards, and so, not only doing that, but reinserting them to make sure the bastard computer isn't lying to me again, I sit back with a metaphorical glass of scotch and a cigar, and invite the metaphorical neighbours round to witness the delete button being pressed.  But the moment spoiled when I did; the turncoat saying there was something locked in there, and did I really want to delete that too?  'I mean, like really?' it said impersonating Regis on Who Wants to be a Millionaire, leaving me in doubt all of a sudden, of something I was so sure about.

'God no', I thought, bastard's probably an integral part of fucking everything and I know it weren't in there yesterday... as an old English friend of mine would 'of' said - cos I emptied a few less precarious things then.  So reinstating it, only perhaps, back to whenst it came, I tried again, and everything disappeared with that wonderful whooshy noise like someone's fag end being sucked out an aircraft toilet, and despite the new files in the new folder, I cringed a little as I went to open them.

'Hah, ya bastard, I win," I said.

Now, I don't do dishes, never have, will hide the dirty bastards anywhere, under the couch, under the sink, whatever, on the patio even, if the dishwasher needs emptying, but another old friend of mine always said, 'if you rinse, as you go', it won't be as bad.  Never! I spat into her face, but I think she might just have had a point.