Everyone has their way of writing. Some people write longhand, some need to have a certain type of pen or pencil before they can work. Others always write with a computer. That’s me.
Even someone who loves nature and aromas carried on the wind, away from the city, as much as I do, has contradictions in their personality. For me the quirk is my computer. I can think freely all day long in the most outlandish way imaginable but when it comes to actually writing, I need a computer. Thoughts crystallise into firm ideas the moment my fingers feel keys beneath them. My computer is like a sort of magical idea magnet that draws all those gorgeous and dreadful thoughts out of me and into the worlds in stories.
And so, when my computer suddenly stopped working, stopped breathing, stopped soaking my ideas into its heart and mind a few days ago, life became less than the airy dream I love to live in with my best friend that knows all my secrets and accepts me for all that I am. It became silent.
Perhaps it’s the lot of a writer to be so neurotic that a broken machine can affect her so deeply. Maybe it’s like that for a lot of creative people. Or maybe it’s just human.
Walking in the forest with the sounds of insects and birds, and water running vaguely in the near distance, requires only the desire to be there, the right clothes, and a bottle of water. Thoughts and ideas come and go. Some stick, some don’t. All is peaceful and the world is a beautiful, harmonious place to be. Machines have no place there and I love that. There, my pad and pencil will do.
Ideas can be jotted down, in a pad, with a pencil, anywhere at all. But the real work happens in a room, with hot tea, in a fever that burns, sitting at a computer. At least for me. This is my studio, my cave, my art space if I want to be precious about it. It’s where the frantically firing neurons inside my brain meet the circuits of that other, that artificial brain, with the brilliant ability to remember everything told to it, an ability that I don’t have. I need it so.
It may be clearer now how vital that machine is to what I choose to do, to what may someday be my living. Without it the ideas don’t dry up but they lose their immediate vitality. Some things need to be recorded in the moment, as they occur to the mind. The pencil is not fast enough.
Happily, my lovely computer is back now, safe and well once more, its ailments cured. And I can breath again.
Well, thank you for sitting through this self-indulgent, cathartic, rant, and I hope you enjoyed this peek into the mind of one who makes things up for a living – or hopes to. You have been a kind and patient friend.
Keep dancing in rhythm and beauty,