My Macbook Air was making an odd, straining, whirring noise, like the hard drive was protesting being worked so much. You'll have to force my clawed hands to scrape against these brick walls if you want another file written. My hubby took it to the Apple Store in Santa Rosa for repair and they're holding it hostage... I mean, storing it... until probably Tuesday when the part "should" come in.
There is a large blank spot on my desk now. My major writing tool is missing and I am forced to use the PC in the living room, which is where I do most of the business work for Medusa's Muse anyway, so it shouldn't be that big of a deal. But it is. I cannot work on my novel here. I can barely work on my blog. This is the desk where I do the bookkeeping and inventory for my press, not where I feel creative.
The tools we choose to help us create become a part of us. I am attached to the feel and sound of my keyboard as I type, the angle of the screen, the particular glare of the desk top as I work. I love how light my computer is, how portable and sturdy, how its shiny metallic surface gleams when the sun pours onto my desk in the late morning.
My Macbook air was a Christmas gift from my hubby last year and I'm saddened it already needs work; granted, it was a refurb (no way could we afford a new one). I'm also surprised at how attached I am to it, like it's a new car or my favorite pair of comfortable shoes. I don't usually get this attached to things, but I am in love with my Macbook, loving the furtive glances of laptop users as I whip out my ultralight in the cafe and don't even bother plugging it in. I can type for over three hours just on the battery. Yep, Dell laptop users, go ahead and sulk in jealousy.
To add insult to injury I've caught the flu. I can't lie in bed with my Macbook and surf the net or work on a short story. Nope, I'm forced to sit up at the PC Tower to work on my blog.
Perhaps this is revenge of the Dell laptop genie. I shouldn't have gloated so much.