We have not yet brought my little iBook in to see the Geniuses and, hopefully, qualify for the free fix that I do think we really should qualify for and I hope they read this and think, Hey, she loves her iBook, let’s do a rush job on it and while we’re at it fix up the (semi)busted mouse, too.
If they do that, though, my iBook will be sent away. I will be iBookless. Will I have to write on PAPER? Wow, I just might.
For now, the iBook is still with me, powered off (for good?). It’s like a wake in the living room—it sits, I stare at it, stroke its smooth white back, and it’s silent and cold under my hand. I had to leave. But, since at any attempt to turn it on the iBook now gets a pitch-black screen and makes a monstrous honking / whining / screaming-from-burning-hellfire noise while running, I have taken E’s laptop to my writing spot for the morning. Problem is, I miss my old setup. My iTunes writing playlist isn’t here. My bookmarks are gone. My Word prefs are wonky. It’s just not the same… My heart is hurting a little bit. How in the world have I gotten myself so tied to a machine? I think because I’ve written so much on it—it knows me like no one knows me. And now here’s the rub: can I be a writer without it? Do I know how to put pen to the page anymore? We may be about to find out.
[And the update those less naive than me may have guessed was coming: They won’t fix it. E was on the phone for over 45 minutes with Apple support even though technically we don’t have Apple support. The computer is too old (according to their records 5 years); the recall ended in 2005 and too much time has passed—though I never knew there was a recall; there is nothing they can do; five years is a good run for a portable; sorry. They were apparently very apologetic. I am heartbroken. Apple has made me disillusioned for the first time ever. It is like learning there is no Santa Claus.]