I read yesterday in publisher’s marketplace that a debut novel has just sold, WHO MOVED MY BLACKBERRY—a title, by the way, that my husband and I once bandied about. I'd just voiced the question one too many times as I wandered around our house, lifting magazines, towels, children’s clothes. (Well, not who *moved* my blackberry, but rather, “Honey, uh, where’s my blackberry?”)
Why, you might ask, is the blackberry of such monumental importance in the Knight household? If my life were a romance or fantasy novel, the blackberry is the golden tether, the magical object, THE thing that expedition parties would search for ceaselessly until they laid hold of it for me. In other words: before the blackberry, there was the void, a seamless cloud of nothing moving over my agent’s life.
And then God spoke, and Blackberry was given unto me.
Brickbreaker. Calendar. Meeting notes. All pale compared to the freeing ecstasy of receiving e-mail at any place on the planet. No longer must wayward agent girl sit in hair appointments wringing her hands, wondering how many URGENT emails have arrived in her absence. Never again shall anxious agent girl observe a child’s six p.m. gymnastics class, only to wonder distractedly if CAA has emailed about that pesky and unresolved Disney matter.
And most glorious of all? Landing on any city’s tarmac, and powering up Blackberry (my friend, my beloved, my most excellent mystical object!) to receive an instant download of emails that have winged through cyberspace during my travels.
Little flashing red light. Gentle vibrating reminder. Ah, Blackberry, how I love thee. Your freedoms are endless, your productivity without boundary. Let not the day speak my name when I must—dare I ever—cry out in unanswered agony…
Who moved my blackberry?
Ah, shall it never be so.