Now that I have started writing again there are many things to consider.
From the Si-Fi writer Jerry T Pournelle’s blog today.
“This morning’s mail opened with this:
New and improved ransomware. Swell
Given all my frustrations I suspect that having to pay ransom for all my files would be a bit more than I could bear, and since I wasn’t being very creative this morning anyway, I decided I’d spend part of the day disarming that threat anyway. The only sure solution is backup files they can’t get out without they burn down my house, and actually even that wouldn’t do it if I do things right.
The solution is to have three enormous off-line disk drives, and back up to each in rotation. One stays in the safe deposit box or a fireproof safe. The other two are in the house. They are put on line only when I am backing up to that particular drive, and it comes off line before I put another on. Then, periodically – ideally every week, but it’s more like every month – I burn an incremental update backup from the big RAID assembly Eric built and everything backs up to. That results in a fair number of disks nor; when I first started to save all my work, I could get just about everything I have ever written on one DVD, and actually if I confine myself to my own works I still can; but if I include all the Outlook pst files, it takes many.”
That is good advice. But there are other ideas about what to do with ones material, perhaps I should consider all the alternatives.
Burning the Letters
by Sylvia Plath
“I made a fire; being tired Of the white fists of old Letters and their death rattle When I came too close to the wastebasket What did they know that I didn’t?
Grain by grain, they unrolled Sands where a dream of clear water Grinned like a getaway car. I am not subtle Love, love, and well, I was tired Of cardboard cartons the color of cement or a dog pack Holding in it’s hate Dully, under a pack of men in red jackets, And the eyes and times of the postmarks.
This fire may lick and fawn, but it is merciless: A glass case My fingers would enter although They melt and sag, they are told Do not touch. And here is an end to the writing, The spry hooks that bend and cringe and the smiles, the smiles And at least it will be a good place now, the attic.
At least I won’t be strung just under the surface, Dumb fish With one tin eye, Watching for glints, Riding my Arctic Between this wish and that wish. So, I poke at the carbon birds in my housedress.
They are more beautiful than my bodiless owl, They console me– Rising and flying, but blinded. They would flutter off, black and glittering, they would be coal angels Only they have nothing to say but anybody.
I have seen to that. With the butt of a rake I flake up papers that breathe like people, I fan them out Between the yellow lettuces and the German cabbage Involved in it’s weird blue dreams Involved in a foetus.
And a name with black edges Wilts at my foot, Sinuous orchis In a nest of root-hairs and boredom– Pale eyes, patent-leather gutturals! Warm rain greases my hair, extinguishes nothing. My veins glow like trees.
The dogs are tearing a fox. This is what it is like A read burst and a cry That splits from it’s ripped bag and does not stop With that dead eye And the stuffed expression, but goes on Dyeing the air, Telling the particles of the clouds, the leaves, the water What immortality is. That it is immortal.”
A lot of Latinos like Trump, they are a good hard working people who know that the corrupt welfare state will destroy their culture. Trump is going to rescue them.