They keyboard of my own laptop feels so alien now. The keys make such a racket. They clickety clack, clickety clack as my fingers peck at them. The pace isn’t exactly slow, but there is some hesitation as I try to reorient to where the keys are. This old laptop, that I wrote hundreds of words at every day since 2006, has been sitting mostly unused for the last few months. I have an iMac at work. And my iPhone for everyday e-mail and social media and a thousand other things. Since I haven’t been writing papers or blogging or writing poetry or writing anything my trusty old MacBook has grown rusty. Well, not rusty. It’s as plastic as it ever was. Not as pristine white. It’s pretty dingy and banged up. But in computer years she’s close to retirement age and she’s letting me know it.
All she’s really good for is word processing. And I’m starting to think I might be able to process words again myself.
In small batches.