Dear Trash Can

My hand moves the mouse across the desk. The cursor hovers over the little trash can at the top of my screen. I have a moment of mental debate.

Dear Wastebasket,

The plot is a good one, full of choices that can end in disaster or save many lives. Characters that will connect with readers and their own family dimensions. Choices, we all have to make them. Then why am I thinking of tossing this novel in the wastebasket?

My hand begins to drag the file closer to the little icon. What's wrong with me? This is a good thriller story.

But you've never written a thriller.

'There's always a first time.' I muutter as I drag the folder back to its place.

The problems you have can't be solved if you've never been in a gun fight or a sniper fight.

'True, but I've watched enough war movies and TV drama. I could fake it.'

I hear a loud raspberry cheer in my head. Yep, that's what it'll be and everyone who reads it will know you have no idea how a S.W.A.T. team would hunt down bombers in an airport. You'd be laughed at and the sound your manuscript hitting the wastebasket will thunder in your ears.

'Come on it can't be that bad. I do know they're dressed from head to toe with gear, The bomb squad looks like aliens from outer space-we being the aliens'.

Wow, you really are thinking outside the box. What are the bombers going to do once the bombs are in place? Do you think they're going to hang around? They'll probably exit with all the others when they're evacuated.

'Come on, do you think I'm stupid? These are terrorist bombers. They die for their cause. They wouldn't plant bombs and leave like a normal bomber, who wants to watch it blow up or get his fifteen minutes of fame on TV. These guys are smart and have a plan. They get into the airport and go to different restrooms in different concourses. The janitors have changes of clothing for them and they push cleaning carts along the concourses. When they get to the pre-chosen area, they slip the packages under the plant moss. Some will put it into the waste cans then cover.thebombs with the plastic liners and put the lids back on.'

It seems you've covered all the details of getting the bombs in place and the terrorists. What is your problem. Just write all that.

'I'm wondering why I'm talking to an icon on a computer desktop. Have I gone mad? Have I become one of those crazy hermit writers who are so engrossed in the writing process they don't see the real world?' I stretch, stand up and go to the kitchen. After I pour hot coffee in a cup, I head back to the computer.

The wastebasket icon seems to be a bit larger than it was when I left. I rub my eyes but its the same size.

Double clicking the writing folder, my story opens and covers the offending icon. I read the first couple of paragraphs. I like this character. He's hard yet has a soft spot for his family. He had to make a choice to save them by sending them to the family vacation house. He left his wife who knew something that might cost him his life, but loved him enough to let him go. She called and gathered her family to make the trip to the mountains.

I scroll down to the next main character. I love this guy too. He had a father that controlled him his entire life and just recently he met someone who challenged his very exsitance. What was he doing in Cell and for what purpose would he kill people he didn't know? Who was the real enemy? Now he had to make the choice of his life. Tell the authorities about the four bombers and save the lives of his new friends and other travelers? Maybe he should just get his family and go to the safe house he'd bought when he first moved to the United States.

'Yes, I do want to tell this story.'

Then what is your problem? The voice from under the Word program mutters.

'I guess I don't i don't have one. I'll just have to work on the plot details as I get to them.' I scroll down to the end of my previous entry and give myself a few spaces and my fingers began to relay the new lines to continue the story.

The wastebasket mutters something I didn't understand and I don't bother to respond.