Month: February 2007

Everlasting Debt

Nova Ren Suma

February 23, 2007

The iBook being unsalvageable (though E plans to take it apart and see what can be done with its parts), I am now right back where I started. The universe works in mysterious ways. At the moment the universe seems to want me in huge debt and filled with guilt over buying a new computer because (1) I can’t afford it and credit makes it seem like you can afford something and then you hate yourself for it later, and (2) I seem to be still in mourning over the loss of my little computer—in that picture I was at the height of inspiration and I wanted to wake each morning to kiss it, and (3) I never had to buy a computer after one broke so suddenly before; it made me realize how tied I am to writing on a machine. That is not good.

My new laptop has not been written on yet. It looks almost like my iBook, except wider and flatter. The trackpad actually works. It’s faster. I am not yet used to the keyboard and seem to be typing everything one key to the right (?). I am still trying to recreate my iTunes library. But the new laptop is from California, which I happen to like.

Still, this isn’t how I planned to get a new computer. It was supposed to be a present to myself when I one day sold a novel. Yes, I bribe myself in many, many ways. I was supposed to pay it in full, right up front, with cash, and touch my fingers against the new soft keys and know I earned them. I will have to work long and hard to earn this.

So happy birthday to me, if you want to look at it that way.

In other news, Apple sent me an email asking what I thought of my recent support call. Do they really want to know what I think? They should help me pay for this new laptop, that’s what I think. They should apologize for selling a computer with a ticking time bomb inside and then saying too many years have passed to fix it. Ironically, the laptop that came before the iBook is still alive and kicking—my infamous clamshell (“toilet seat”) model. I gave it to my mother years ago and she still uses it. How can that computer be perfectly functional when my other died a loud and sudden death? Another mystery of the universe. I feel older and wiser today.

Note to anyone who has a Mac: Check for recalls! Often! They will fix these things for free if and only if you aren’t too late like I was. Of course, if you have no problems whatsoever how are you supposed to know that your logic board is about to detonate? I have no clue. Still, check to be safe. Don’t let this happen to you.

p.s. Thank you, E. And sorry. For everything.
Separation Anxiety (Yes, Already)

Nova Ren Suma

February 22, 2007

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.]
iBook, Come Back to Me, I Am Still Here

Nova Ren Suma

February 22, 2007

In irony, in terrible terrible irony, my iBook went kaput. The screen turned striped, and faded, the grinding sound was abominable, and then it was like watching a mushroom cloud dissipate across my whole entire (screen) life. (I had not backed up in a long while.) I was devastated. I woke up this morning and remembered and wanted to cry.

I went back and realized I’ve had this iBook longer than I thought. It has been about 4 1/2 years. How many times did I pay for it in those years due to the interest on that loan? I don’t know. My iBook had the life of a pet turtle. But I am not like Kate Winslet in Titantic: I’m not willing to let go just yet.

E, in the final throes of his birthday, performed a miracle. He somehow connected the iBook’s harddrive to an external monitor and we were able to back up all my important data—even my pictures!—onto the iPod. We got everything I could think of (though I forgot my keychain passwords) and then it died for good, giving one little grunt of a last breath. Thank you, E. I won’t borrow your computer when you need it.

It’s the logic board—the hard drive is still okay. I have been a loyal Apple customer since 1994 on my first giant black-and-white laptop. I have personally converted (before their infamous “I’m a Mac” / “I’m a PC” commercials) at least five people who went on to buy Macs because of me; I hand-sold the iPod from my very first model in 2002 to everyone I knew; I have taken jobs or not taken jobs solely on whether I would be on a Mac instead of a PC. I loved OSX so much, I could have eaten it. I am a walking Mac advertisement. They owe me. I would like a free fix please. We are going to the Genius Bar later today to ask for just that. On top of that, tomorrow’s my birthday. Maybe they’ll feel sorry for me and fix it on the spot? Ha. Oh, I’m sad.
The Moment After

Nova Ren Suma

February 21, 2007

I was in the expected table at an expected Starbucks this morning, reading a short story: “The Shape of Water” by Mark Slouka, from his book Lost Lake. Distractions abounded. A girl with ash on her head stared vacantly in my direction. A man with a bike and an old boom box danced on the sidewalk to Jethro Tull—whenever the door opened, the notes of the song came in. He was not a good dancer. Babies in strollers knocked coffee beans to the floor.

But then I lost myself in the story. I read slowly, sentence by sentence, and when I reached the end I held on to the last word for a while and then—inexplicably—flipped back to the start so I could read the opening paragraph again:

Some say the soul tempered by fire—tortured true—is the better for the trial. Perhaps it is so. But I was born between the wars. My adventures were of the survivable kind, my tragedies ambiguous and undramatic, observed as much as felt. What formed me were anecdotes—often inconclusive, generally unheroic—connected to a particular forty acres of water. An unexceptional place. I did not choose it. And yet, if I could ever open myself, I suspect I’d find its coves there, its sleeping silt, its placental water smooth with algae… and the faces of those I’d known, revealed as clearly as if mine had been that lake of legend said to reflect the hidden heart.

I closed the book and sighed. I felt a little choked up.

“Are you okay?” the girl with ash on her head called over.

I said I was.

“Good,” she said. “I was worried. It looked like something terrible just happened.”

I didn’t tell her what had happened: it was the story, only a story, but the weight of the words made it seem like so much more.
Favorite Day

Nova Ren Suma

February 21, 2007

Today is the day my favorite person, e, was born. Thus, I made him banana pancake-crepes (my mother’s recipe) and we will have dolsot bibimbap (what else?) at our current favorite restaurant for dinner. In between we will do whatever he wants. I wish there was a way I could express in writing how I feel about him. It’s terrifically ironic to be a writer and yet be unable to find the words. Every year I think of writing him a story as a present, but happiness and true love don’t seem to make for very exciting fiction. Someday I will publish a book, and it will be dedicated to him. Maybe he’ll know then how I feel. Maybe one day I’ll find a way to express it beyond banana pancakes.
Borrow-Lust

Nova Ren Suma

February 20, 2007

I am out-of-control. My library card is like my maxed Visa (except no one’s taken away the library card yet). Today I had some books to return from my last trip—and still a bunch more to read at home—and yet I could not leave the building without browsing for more. Who knew what would be in the “New” shelves, shiny spine out just waiting for me to find it?

So I started cruising. I hit the A’s. Slow, pacing, marking my territory. The D’s had me down on the floor. The F’s, over to the next shelf. By the S’s I was cradling my finds tightly against my chest, and at the very last book (a Y) I knew I wasn’t done yet. I left the “New” shelves for the general fiction section. My eyes roved the spines, my fingers touching sometimes, pulling out a pretty number. I’d devour a paragraph, swallow a whole page. Many of the books I recognized by the color and type design on the spine. I’d had them already. Sometimes I wanted them again. I don’t have time to read all these books…what is wrong with me?

It was with great restraint that I left the building with just four new titles: Compression Scars, The Knife Thrower, The First Hurt, and This Book Will Save Your Life. I could have taken a whole shelf, had I brought a cart.
Keep At It (The Yearly Smack on the Head)

Nova Ren Suma

February 20, 2007

This past year has been a long, slow stall for me. I like to brush off the rejections—I tell myself I’m brushing them off—but I wonder if instead I’m hanging on so I can mull over them later when no one’s looking. Truth is, for a year I’ve written things of no real consequence. Ghostwriting is a good way to hide. I’ve been petrified of failing again, so I haven’t given it a real go. I look at writers who work hard every day (look at Helen, on her 10th draft, and I’m meandering and thinking of giving it all up on, what is it really?, a 4th?!) and then I look at myself, and I know the answer: I must work harder. I must keep trying.

Even Miss Snark’s message today is one I could hear a little more of. Someone asks: “At what point does one simply give up?” And Miss Snark, not one for random acts of kindness, says:

Never.

It’s true, it’s about the writing, not the publishing fantasy. I miss those innocent times when I didn’t know up from down when it came to publishing fantasies. There was a time when I had no clue what a literary agent was, so it didn’t occur to me to want one.

Last year I thought of giving up—yes, I did consider it for some extended moments; yes, I was feeling sorry for myself. I’m thinking of this now because at the end of this week it’s my birthday. My birthday last year brought with it a very disappointing rejection, the start of a descent that peaked that spring. By summer, I had no idea what to do with myself. I guess I still don’t. I hope to figure it out this year. I’d rather look back on a year of honest effort than one of self-pity and immobility. Yikes. Someone please help me back up!

And I realize the “someone”—clearly—must be myself. And so begins the head-smacking…