Of the four computers in the house, one — mine — has grown surly and recalcitrant as a teenager. One refuses to work unless the voodoo powers that be compel it. One is actually a television. And the fourth, the sluggish, crumb-sticky laptop that Natalie claims for her video games, is suddenly my best option. It has a backspace delay of several seconds (resulting in frequent retypings and gnashing of teeth), and my word processing program scares it into shock, but it’s the best I have. At least until the savings envelope quadruples in size and I can pick out a machine that doesn’t have peanut butter under the shift key.
But this isn’t really about computers. I am plenty familiar with the lifespan of technology, how it goes from chrome to rust in sixty, how new and obsolete are not mutually exclusive. I can’t really begrudge these indispensable frames of LCD and soldered brains, even while I’m mashing the manual reset and muttering bad words. They’re temporal. I get it.
The problem here is that my mind is treating our uncooperative computers as a roadblock. No, not a roadblock… more like an intruder, someone locked in my house keeping my things hostage while I watch bewildered through the windows. I’m embarrassingly helpless without my dear little organization system, my lists at fingertip access, my photos subcategorized and standing at attention. I hate having to wait when a sentence springs to mind. This, my reason mumbles wild-eyed, is why you don’t have a hope of writing. It’s right. Until I can get into some kind of happy routine, my stories will coalesce in the “Snippets” folder. Until I can confidently delegate minutes to exercise and food and fairy tales and playing author, I will continue to feel shut out of my own head. And until I have a trustworthy set-up for all my niggling technological needs, my schedule will keep wandering in a stupor.
At least, that’s how it seems right now. Inspiration formless and void, drifting like a lost balloon… My words temporarily homeless, carving out awkward niches to spend the night… October a quarter gone, still disoriented and unsustainable… It seems the question for this autumn is not how to adjust to a new way of life or how to recoup my fragmented emotions or even how to keep the kitchen floor clean (I’ve got that one covered for once), but how to stop pinning my writing aspirations on the technology that makes them possible.
Okay, so maybe this is about computers after all.
Woman, I could read you all day. You and Christina. You are awesome.
I could comment about what a wonderful writer you are (and you ARE) and that you are already writing wonderful stuff (and you ARE, see above post) but instead, I will tell you that we must be kindred spirits. I can totally see what you are talking about, but you have put it so eloquently that I don’t know how I can add to it. It IS about a computer, but it really isn’t (even though it IS). Mine is about a desk space. But, I think I need a different desk for each of the different hats I wear–you know, to ORGANIZE all of the PAPER and stuff. You see, yours is at least feasible. Mine would take up my entire house.
You two are lovelier than anyone has the right to be. Thank you. Your comments truly made my day. And Megsie, would it be weird if I admitted how much I’d love to help you organize your papers? Maybe being a secretary in a past life would explain my ridiculous love for categorizing and filing… yes, even papers that take up an entire house.
Oh, my gosh! COME ON OVER!!! You can organize my master’s papers and archive them, and then three kid’s worth of school CRAP, and this does not even include all of the things that I *might* need. Please bring some limoncello, and your family. I will bake apple pie. What time will you be here?