The sun is shining through the window, perhaps a bit too brightly, as I sit down at my desk. I punch the button on the computer, squint, and rub my eyes. I am not a morning person. My computer hums to life. Usually, all it takes is a tap of the mouse on the little envelope icon, and voila, the emails come rolling in. Today, though, the icon does not respond. The screen remains blank despite my trigger-happy finger on the mouse. I start to get grouchy. (Well, I might have been a touch grumpy before, but this is the last straw.) A gray box pops up that says “Error. No server found.”

Frantic, I pull up my homepage on the Internet. It isn’t there. There’s just that ridiculous error page that tells you to “refresh,” even though everyone knows that will never, ever work, not in a million years. I click “detect network settings.” Perhaps this is a secret button, unbeknownst to me. Nope. “Server not found,” it says. I glare at the screen.

What on Earth am I going to do? The ‘net is vital to my writing life. Editors will be emailing me, and I need to email them. My online writing group has a message board that moves at a steady clip. My online writing class has an assignment due today, and we rely on each other for critiques. Websites, bookmarked under “writing” in my Favorites folder, are waiting for their daily perusal. And what about the online writing markets updates? Besides, my computer holds a piece in its bosom that is just a few edits away from being ready. It has to be sent via email.

I jump up and escape to the kitchen for a glass of water. Okay, plan B. Edit the manuscript, and by the time I’ve finished, the server will be up. It will.

But when the editing is complete, the computer still cannot find its server.

I sit there in a daze, pondering the internet-less screen. I’m starting to have withdrawal symptoms already, and my fingernails are bitten to the quick. How embarrassing. I used to make fun of my husband for coming home and heading straight for the computer. A ‘net addict, I called him. Now look at me. A writer, at a loss because my network connection is down.

A pen, that old-fashioned writing tool, sits on my desk. I pick it up and twiddle it between my fingers. It whaps the desk repeatedly with an irritating thunk. Stop it, my brain tells my fingers, but they don’t respond—something is biting at my subconscious. It’s a thought that I can’t quite grasp, a feeling that eludes me just as I’m about to snag it.

My glance roves around the room as I think, landing on the stack of journals gathering dust in the corner. The feeling circles around inside my stomach, and it’s starting to seem an awful lot like guilt. Some of those journals are full, but some have blank pages left. I’ve been neglecting them lately. I used to write in them daily, doing timed writing exercises purely for the sake of honing my craft, but now there is a bona fide layer of dust on the top of each one. That has to be a bad sign.

When I pick up the purple, suede-covered one, it feels heavy in my hands. The weight of it is familiar, comforting. It falls open to an entry, and I read the scribbles. They’re just that, scribbles, but they feel so genuine, so honest. These are the words of a writer—sketches half-drawn and statues half-sculpted. They have yet to be transformed into perfect black shapes on a white screen. Instead, the letters slant and wiggle all over the page, showing clearly where inspiration led the way. Sometimes there’s a splotch of ink where the pen paused to think. It’s more than writing. It’s a roadmap to the writer’s mind, a painting of the process. I turn the page, and the next one is empty. Waiting. I could open up a blank document on the computer, but suddenly that’s not as appealing as the feel of a pen in my hand and a journal on my lap.

I like the purple pen the best. I love writing in colors—the flow of the script, the curl of cursive letters in an ink tone that matches my mood. A blissful, not-a-care-in-the-world, creative feeling comes over me as I pour a cup of tea, light a candle, and settle in with my journal. I chew the end of my pen, stare off into space, and then scribble furiously. Images and scenes play themselves out before my eyes, which are not distracted by colored icons and message boxes. I disappear into different worlds, meet and talk with new people. Sometimes it feels like I’m just waking up when I set down my journal. Almost as if I’ve been dreaming.

I used to start my writing day this way, each and every day. I have a journal for everything. There’s one for writing exercises, one for fiction, one for moods, and on and on, so the choices each morning are endless. Journaling is a soft, gentle way to start the day. No click of the keyboard, no PC whirring. Just my dog’s light snores and the scritch-scratch of the pen.

When did I quit doing this? How did I forget? Somehow the convenience of the typed word has taken over. All my writing exercises are done on the computer, as is editing and conversing with colleagues. I have begun to equate writing with everything else that goes on in my computer—the Internet, email, etc. The creative zone, that other world where the inspirations flourish, is harder to come by. I have forgotten about the basic, simple act of putting words on the page—that moment of pen-chewing ecstasy as an idea blossoms behind my eyelids. If I begin my writing day with a pen, then the words flow freely instead of squeezing out in short bursts. It’s easier to resist the urge to spend more time answering emails than writing.

So the Internet is down, but I am not. I am cozy with my tea and my dog and my pen, coming up with enough new ideas for weeks of emailing editors. I make a vow to begin each day this way again, not to let this go, even when time is short. My hand reaches over and clicks the icon one more time. Up comes the homepage, rested and restored. But it’s just going to have to wait. My brain server has been neglected, and it’s time to refresh. I sit back with my journal. I am a writer, after all.