Letting go

I currently have one dead laptop and two printers that shred paper. Though I stumbled upon the instructions for replacing the defunct inverter to my daughter’s laptop this summer, I have checked the internet forums and I can’t seem to find any hope. I know computers are supposed to be as disposable as old TVs, but I have a hard time letting them go. A computer is more than just a tool for my work. My characters breathe through them. I get attached.
I remember my first Macintosh fondly. It was situated in the attic, far enough from the sounds of my young children to allow me to write. I had a small computer station and a roller chair, a wrought iron table from my mother upon which I placed my thermos of coffee and the cordless (not cellular) telephone. This was actually before caller ID became a popular feature, and I would generally get sucked into calls even when I wasn’t looking for a distraction. If I lost a sentence because of an inconvenient telemarketer, the family heard about it over dinner.
My three children’s photos were nearby along with whatever inspirational pictures or quotes I push-pinned into the wall. I could swivel my way into a file cabinet which contained works of mine dating back to high school, lean left and pull out a box or bubble mailer to send out my work, and manage to avoid the glare of the window behind me with a Velcro hung green screen. The attic had no heat of its own, so I relied upon the laws of physics to float enough my way. I was rarely disappointed.
I wrote seven novels and two plays on that computer, and never once did it fail me. As my kids grew older and began to spend more time out of the house, it seemed silly to make the commute all the way to the third floor. I began to write scripts on a laptop, converted my files to Windows, and edited my unpublished manuscripts on the family computer. Eventually, I let the Mac go on to another family where I’m sure it is still working beautifully. At least I like to think of it that way.
My dead laptop had once been revived by a computer expert who replaced and restored my hard disk and my files. My husband was after me to upgrade then, but I resisted. I did harvest most of the files, so I haven’t suffered a major loss of material. But I feel sad just the same. My keyboard is my instrument, and I don’t like to see it lifeless.