I can't believe I'm even typing this, but it's true. This is the very last time I'll sign off for the night from my beloved MacBook. It's a work computer, which means I shouldn't (cough) be so reliant on it for my out-of-work activities, like writing. But it's been with me 24/7 for the last 18 months, and has converted me from a Mac hater to a Mac lover so thoroughly that I never want to get back.
But I have no choice in the matter, unfortunately. I've just started 12 months maternity leave, and I'm not allowed to keep my computer just because I like it. I've spent the last couple of hours officially removing myself- putting the desktop back to something bland instead of a photo of the real Edenvale; changing the Firefox home page back to ordinary Google instead of iGoogle; deleting all my bookmarks. I've transferred all my writing files (would you believe there were over 2000?) to CD and USB drive (and I'm freaking out about that, even though I've checked six times that all the files are functioning and fine). I've farewelled Scrivener and uninstalled it (sob!).
So, now it's time to say goodbye. It shouldn't be such a drama, should it? But it's occurred to me that the computer actually constitutes a vital part of the writer's environment (if said writer uses a computer, of course). The worlds we escape into are our eventual destination, but our screens and keyboards are part of the journey. I won't wax on anymore, but next time I return (tomorrow, likely) it'll be via the horrible PC, which admittedly has a nice new enormous LCD screen, but counters that with a temperamental-as-hell mouse and Internet connection.
I hope I'll have a Mac again before October next year, but you never know. In the meantime it's going to be a whole new journey settling back into my original writing environment. Despite the general despair, I'm cautiously optimistic that it'll give me a new outlook on things...
Excerpt from Between the Lines
A memory wavered into his mind, shimmery as heat rising off the road in summer.
He was six years old, and he’d been in Stonehaven no more than a week. He was hollow and lonely, confused. He missed the bustle of Melbourne. He missed the other kids on his street, the whole gang of them and their scampy games. He was stuck out in the bush, all of a sudden, with nobody but Lionel for company. Lionel had spent the first day ignoring him completely, and the last few beating the stuffing out of him whenever he got the chance. So that day, he’d wandered out to the back garden, if it could even be called that- just a scrubbed, flat expanse of hot red dirt with a veil of tangled trees and shrubs behind it.
The bush.
On impulse, he’d taken a couple of steps toward it, bare feet burning on the hot ground. The air was filled with the lemony scent of eucalyptus and the fresh tang of the distant sea. He'd filled his lungs and the two steps had turned into six, then ten, then before he knew it he was running headlong toward the wall of whispering green and brown, pushing all his mother’s warnings about snakes and savages from his head. He barrelled between the first spicy-scented leaves and, to his surprise, popped out on a sort of beaten down track, hidden from view of the house. After a moment’s pause to wonder how many strokes of the belt he’d get for this, he set off down the track toward the most interesting noise he’d heard so far- the babbling giggle of flowing water, and laced in with it, the high, clear notes of a girl’s voice, singing.
He stepped off the track with his heart hammering in his chest, suddenly terrified as he caught side of the wide river bank and the rolling mass of glassy green water.
She was standing there, all right- a girl not much taller than him, skinny as a rake, skin the golden brown of tree bark lit by sun. A cascade of golden curls rolled over her shoulders to skim at her waist, tendrils flicking out here and there as she drew back her arm and lobbed a big rock into the water.
He watched it go, traced the arc with his eyes until it hit the water with a loud splash and was swallowed. She was singing, still, her voice high and clear. She was wearing a white dress that finished at her knees and puffed into short sleeves at her shoulders. He looked down at himself, his grey shorts and jumper coated in jam, dirt and everything else he’d been busy with that morning. He stared at her back with suspicion. She was pristine. The only dirty bit of her was her feet, bare as his.
If it hadn’t been for those feet, he might have thought she was an angel. Or a ghost.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
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