I could take The 65th Crayon, and we could go together to see him, sort of like Dorothy and Toto. We could use L. Frank Baum’s stories to serve as our guide—with a few edits and updates, of course. We’d have to find a couple of pals, and I’d have to decide what I wanted for myself.
I’d leave out the witches and Munchkins, I think. I haven’t heard about witches or Munchkins on the web. I haven’t heard of Tin Men, Scarecrows, or Cowardly Lions here either. I’d better consult Adsense and put out a call—someone knows whether any of these have been at the local blogs.
At the first meeting with OZ the Magnificent, I would ask for the Killer App—a defragmenting utility for my brain. Imagine the bliss. I could relax after writing all day. The program would reset my brain files into neat, little rows—no empty spaces between them. I would be human at the end of my day. I’d answer questions with grace, not my usual “WHAT?!!!!!!”
Stories always have three wishes—the most popular OZ tale had brain, heart, and courage. I have the other two covered, in case The Crayon and I face the Great OZ alone. The second audience would go something like this:
“Dear OZ,” I would say ever so sweetly. “Could you please introduce me to the famous Miss Snark, the literary agent? I’d like to meet her and know her name, please. She’d get a chance to show off her heart, and I could get a Snarky critique. At the least, Oh Great OZ, Miss Snark would see the little snarkling in me. ”
In audience three, I’d plead for the courage to get Larry Page, Terry Semel, and Steve Ballmer to sit down with me. I’d pull out my PowerPoint with this proposition: Real people do real work to feed real families. Then with my new courage, I’d tell them to play well together and remind them of how easily they might ruin things for everybody.
Three missions accomplished, The Crayon and I would say our tearful farewells and start on our way home. All would go well, but for that attack of the bots and spiders. Thank goodness we know mirror writing and verse.
Eventually we'd skip into the WBA, singing “There’s no blog like home.”
. . . and thanking the web gods for letting us be.
—me strauss Letting me be
/Letting me be/