Two weeks ago I stated I was going to go beyond this corner in what I call “the computer room” where my ugly orange pressboard desk and my comfortable padded chair sits. I didn’t think it would be this hard to think of other things to write about. It’s clear that I’m obsessed with writing.
Back in July, my husband bought me a laptop saying it was my birthday present, which, at the time, was two months away. We went to Walmart thinking I could get one relatively cheap there.
There it sat, first in the line of many others, an Acer. The first computer I ever bought was an Acer, way back in 1996. At the time, I wasn’t online. I guess I could have been but I was oblivious to the idea. Chances are it would have been quite a hassle back then anyway. Anyway, I thought it was duly appropriate that my first laptop would also be an Acer. Walmart isn’t what it’s cracked up to be though. It didn’t have any in stock and they wouldn’t let me take the one on display. They didn’t even give me a rain check. Walmart sucks.
We went to Staples. All of their laptops were actually tablets with the keyboard you can attach. I wanted a laptop. Besides, their tablets are way out of my price range. Can you imagine paying over $800 for something that wasn’t really what you wanted anyway? I couldn’t.
I ended up calling Dell. I should have done this in the first place because my current PC is a Dell. By buying another device from them, I got a few bonuses in services. I was an idiot for wasting time at Walmart and Staples.
It took me a while to figure out how to get the wireless to work. I still am having problems syncing it with my PC. Again, it’s my own fault. I changed how verification is done before I thought it all the way through. Trying to find a time when I’m extremely calm and alert so I can get this done has been impossible lately. The verification comes by way of a phone call giving me a random four-digit number. This wouldn’t be hard at all if I had two hands to use or I didn’t have short-term memory loss. Even getting rid of one of the assets and I could still handle it, no problem–I think. As it is though, I must be at my very best mentally. However, there’s no such thing these days. Therefore, I can’t sync my two devices. In addition, I think I’m going to have to call Dell anyway on this because I can’t see all files at DropBox when on my laptop. I dread the thought. Me and virtual help get rather confusing, both for me and the technician on the other end.
I’m still stuck in my little corner when I write on my WiP. I keep on wondering if this is a good thing or a bad thing. Would I be more inclined to write more if I could go outside on the carport to write? Out there I know I’d have old Jake, our oldest “outdoor” cat keeping me company. There’s a possibility that I’d probably have Wilma, Ashes, and Ciders there too. In my little corner, I have Miya, our oldest “indoor” cat snoozing away on the floor just in reason for a love pat every once in a while.
Where would I get the most inspired writing done?
To tell the truth, I think I might be better staying where I am. I don’t have to move anything to get set up. My hot coffee and bottled water are just a room away. My books on writing sit in a weaved bin on my ugly desk where I can reach them with ease. I just need to get husband moving on helping me make my corner a more desirable place to be.
This doesn’t mean my laptop was a dumb buy. I do use it. There are times when husband is home and yet I want to be absolutely certain I’m completely alone while I write. This is usually when I’m adding to my private journal. I go to the back bedroom where my laptop sits under the bed. I pull it out and place it on a stadium blanket that’s been folded several times. I stuff pillows behind my back while sitting on the bed half Indian-style, and hammer at the keys.
Maybe my hassles are because I’m not thinking outside the box.
And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt. ~Sylvia Plath