By C. L. Beck
I’ve just discovered that I have a major neurological malfunction. My fingers are not connected to my brain. Especially when typing.
The other day I came up with a whiz-bang idea for a newspaper column. Ok, maybe it wasn’t really whiz-bang, but it was an idea.
Hoping to impress the publisher of the local paper, I fired off an e-mail detailing my proposal. This particular newspaper had printed some of my writing in the past, so I brazenly told the publisher that articles I’d submitted before seldom needed editing.
Why, oh why, did I do that? Where were the little warning bells that normally go off in my brain? Were they in Cancun, sunning on the beach, drinking little drinks with paper umbrellas in them?
What about the red flags that usually wave before my eyes? Hmmm—knowing them, they were out eating donuts (which are currently forbidden on my self-imposed diet).
The publisher sent me back a gracious response and said she’d take the matter under consideration and get back with me.
That’s when I discovered my fingers were holding my brain hostage.
Upon re-reading my note to her—a mistake in itself, since you’re sure to find errors after you’ve already hit the send button—I was mortified to discover a small error. One so small that I’m praying she didn’t notice it.
Honest, I’d meant to say that I belonged to a group of writers called the LDS Writers Blogck. Despite the message that my brain sent, my fingers typed out that I belonged to the LSD Writers Blogck.
I’d re-read that e-mail at least ten times before I sent it. I’d spell-checked it three times. Why didn’t spell-check tell me I’d goofed? You’ll be happy to know that spell-check is apparently a hippie from the ‘60’s. It thinks LSD is a real word.
Now I’m wondering. Do you think my fingers know something about the LDS Writers Blogck that I don’t? Maybe that’s why we have so much fun together. Here all along I thought we were coming up with these great ideas from our imaginations. Maybe I should consider that we’re all hallucinating from those cute little gelatin squares someone shared with us at our last get-together.
Hey, it’s not our fault. We’re a group of Latter Day Saints. We’re used to eating gelatin. It shows up at every get-together as salads, main courses, desserts, and even in its pure, unadulterated form— the jiggly, green stuff. How are we supposed to know the difference?
No, now that I think about it some more, I’m sure those gelatin squares were not LSD, but just a creative way to serve JELL-O. Besides, as writers we don’t need drugs to write. Our imaginations are close enough to hallucinations to be brothers.
Well, all I can say is that I’m going to find a way to get into my spell-check and delete LSD as a real word, so that I don’t make that mistake again. Then I think I’ll go do something to keep out of trouble. Maybe I’ll bake myself some brownies.
Ooo, brownies. Far out, man.