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December 12, 2005
the eulogy of my computer
So I thought I'd post an essay I wrote on my computer because I thought it related a lot to our discussions on technology and writing...
"the eulogy of my computer"
For a writer, a lack of media in which to write is devastating. There's this freeing of mind that I find comes as I write and when I cannot write I find it is blocked like the internet sites on my computer.
I'm not sure if it's some sort of ironic masochism, but it seems most writers hate computers. We are artistic, we are creative, we are left brained, and we are most certainly not technologically savvy. We hate technology. We hate machines. And yet we are bound to them like the pages of the book we hope to someday write.
I've not yet found peace with my little piece of technology called a dell, yet I am completely and utterly confined to it. I cannot write without it; I've found my typing skills keep up with my thoughts more quickly than a pen, and I can always read the print on the computer as opposed to the chickenscratch I find on paper.
In theory, computers are therefore a good thing. Until they flash a warning sign with codes I cannot understand that don't go away when I click my standard "yes." And then after a few hundred warning signs or so, the computer will inevitably crash, and most often when I am in the middle of a mind blowing conclusion that I have just reached and whether or not I've saved it, I always lose what I've written.
And then come the clenching of the stomach, teeth gritting and eventual hating of the world.
I hate the world when I can't write. I get tense and every piece of lint that lands on the floor is magnified until it reaches thunderous levels that shake my room. The humming of the refrigerator grates in my ears and every person that calls my name becomes the root to all the evil in the world. My cravings for sugar control me so that I cannot see past the donuts or ice cream that I know lie within my reach and my nausea that reaches past my throat can't sway me from being sure that chubby hubby ice cream will dissuade at least a morsel of my anger.
And then come the opinions. Every person in the tri-state area has a sure-fix for my computer. They'll each point to various programs on my computer, tell me that a different one is the root cause, argue with whatever the last has said, and when the last of the computer geniouses has left, I find myself with a computer I can hardly recognize as my own. My programs in reverse order or half have been deleted, and in their place are new, more complicated editions that end in 2005 or 2006 or letters and numbers that form unrecognizable "words." Inevitably, nothing will work.
I can only last a few days or so without the writing outlet. It lasts until I find myself awake all night writing into the dark air around me, brainstorming, concluding, and eventually getting increasingly angry that I cannot put them down on printed paper until I find myself full of fear and realization that I will forget every idea—which I do—and in the meantime I've become a sleepless, paranoid, impatient, and coldhearted lunatic.
It's only to be expected. Writing is how I understand life. It's my release and freedom in which I have learned to become the person I am. Not only am I extremely left brained and creative, but I also find it absolutely necessary to have the opportunity to write. I find myself lost in technology yet confined without it. I've become accustomed or maybe addicted to computers and cannot write without the ability to type, save, print, email, send, and a few hundred saves in between each for the learned obsessive compulsive paranoia that I have gained from losing hundreds, thousands, probably billions of words.
I'm not sure what it is that causes me to try the same computer maneuvers repeatedly, and though I find that each time they either don't work or make my computer work, I always have this dogged hope that it will work. And each time, I get a little more distraught, depressed, and suicidal when I find that I cannot fix my computer.
Inevitably, I take my precious work to a real computer guy. I'm his worst patient when I beg him to keep everything I've written and call him for the full two weeks he has it to make sure it's ok and see if just maybe he got it done early. I pay up the three hundred and forty-two dollars and try not to ever look at my cash checking balance thingy (have I mentioned writers suck at money issues too?) that will remind me, and take my computer plus several hundred new programs and editions back to my home. And I'll check through every document before glancing in the mirror and noticing that it's been four and a half weeks since I've showered or slept (the first two weeks and three days that I tried my and everyone else's home fix-its, and the last two weeks and one day that I waited by the phone and doorstep of my computer guy). I'll spend another day by my computer, just watching it, then writing, then watching again, before I can shower and sleep. And then in a few days I'll forget my problems, get used to all my new programs, and eventually turn back into myself with a few additional ulcers, a little less hair, and no writers' block. The thing with writers, is writing becomes sort of a safety, a release, a comfort like nothing else. There can be no replacement.
Posted by Christine Dance at December 12, 2005 4:14 PM
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