I am a computer person, but not the kind you think. I don’t know a lot about programming and I can’t hack software. I have to click on the extra-detailed instructions whenever I download a program. In fact, the most I can do is search the internet and, well–write.
But I’m a computer person. I lug my laptop around almost everywhere I go, because it’s my notebook, my storage cabinet, my journal, my memoir. My fingerprints litter the screen. Scratches and dings prove my inherited clumsiness. And sometimes I think I should adopt a squirrel because it could survive solely on the crumbs stuck between my keys.
We have a relationship, my computer and I. I know which keys stick, and I’m sure the baby boy growing in my belly (I’m 6 months along!) is already accustomed to the constant chattering of those sticky keys. I need it. And, because computers have not yet evolved to the point where they can autonomously and simultaneously run the world, flip pancakes, and write their own novels, my computer needs me.
Without you, computer, I wouldn’t be about to release my first novel. I wouldn’t be nearly as fulfilled or nearly as close to developing carpel tunnel. You and me together, baby, ’til the very end.