Briefcase: (n) a flat, rectangular container, typically made of leather
Mine was an old, cheap, black variety, torn places all over the fake leather, with bent hinges.
I carried it officiously, thinking it made me look…well, I guess, important.
When I began writing my first novel, I made sure that every time I stopped typing (yes, this was back in the day when we actually used typewriters) every page was placed meticulously, nestled into my briefcase of safe-keeping.
I was so proud.
I had actually written maybe a third of my first great American manuscript when one night, somebody broke into my van and for some inexplicable reason, stole the knobs off my radio–and lifted my briefcase.
I didn’t have anything in there except the first draft of this work and some pictures my kids had drawn of sunsets and oddly-shaped horses.
It was totally useless to the person who stole it, but to me it was gold. I felt like I had lost part of my life.
The idea of having to start over again to regain the energy and thoughts already spilled out onto paper seemed extraordinarily arduous, if not impossible.
Fortunately for me, a friend who had been retyping the material had kept her old copies. Therefore, all of the inspiration which had poured from my heart was salvaged.
Once I received that reprieve from the prison of my fears, I gained a little sense of humor about the whole affair.
I wondered what the thief thought when he pried open that briefcase, thinking he might find treasure, and discovered 102 pages … of poorly-typed novel.
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