I first tried to do some serious writing thirty years ago. Pen and paper were not my friends. My hand would smear the ink. My penmanship is illegible, sometimes even for me. I can’t spell to save my life. And editing made the page look like some kind of expressionist art piece based on frustration. It didn’t take long before I put the endeavor aside.
I did go through the typewriter era. While I was in school my parents had an old Brothers manual. Hitting the keys took just the right about of pressure to hit the paper. Type too fast and the arms would jam, very old school. My only personal typewriter was a Smith-Corona Selectric. I hated it. With every letter it sounded like a gun going off. I may be among the last generation to suffer with typewriters. Even now they seem like antiques.
We have something like eight to ten computers in the house at this point. Most of them are units we’ve outgrown for one reason or another. I remember when we only had one. When it broke down life became a major stress. I steered clear of it to avoid D’s wrath should I damage our only form of doing business on the internet.
It took years for D to convince me to move from PC to Mac. It’s been a year now, and apparently I’ve become reliant on my nice little, lightweight, Apple. The fan is making an ominous noise so it needs to go in for service. For all those years working on a PC I thought the skills would come back a little easier. I’m not a technological person, but I sure have become dependent on these devices. All I keep thinking is how it could be worse.