27 November 2019
So, I finally beat my computer to death. It was a long hard slog – took me twelve years to do it, but I persisted and now it refuses to come out to play. As I solicit sympathy, I find some, but the consensus seems to be that twelve years constitutes a win. I… guess… Mostly it constitutes a hassle.
And a loss. And a sad desperate helplessness knowing that my precious files are locked up in that inert box, and that I am stripped of my typewriter and my digital crayons and that I am fenced out of my internet playground.
So chastened am I by the intensity of the loss that I am resolved to re-enter gingerly and deliberately. But re-enter I must. Cybernetic intercourse is as “necessary” to modern life as are automobiles and mobile telephones.
It’s going to be a nuisance learning a new operating system and graphical manipulator and word processor, but that’s still probably faster than finishing my current novel by hand, though Cervantes and Fielding seemed to have managed without even a typewriter. Fortunately, almost ALL of my text is backed up on paper, but there’s still about 30% hiding in my head.
Nevertheless, the project is stalled, due to the exigencies of the Dreaded Upgrade.