I was determined to get some writing done, and I thought that in order to achieve that goal I would buy myself some beer and beef jerky, and put my word processor out in the living room so that I could show my TV, Xbox, PS3, and laptop that they weren’t shit.
It still works, for the most part, so I guess it doesn’t matter. If it were BROKEN, broken I’d also like to say that it doesn’t matter, but it would. A lot. I haven’t used the thing in almost two years, which is ridiculous. But, I’ve had it (and had actively been using it) since I was thirteen. It used to belong to my mother, when she was still part of the business world.
I hadn’t used it for so long. And I hadn’t been writing. Not really. A few things here and there, but not really at all. I have such a hard time writing on my laptop, because not only are there too many distractions, but it’s not a friend. That Brother WP is a friend. Or, not to be too obvious, it is my brother (God, that’s so dumb and silly, but I’m not going to delete that part because it’s true). When I would sit down to write on my Brother it would just be the two of us, communing. And when I was done, I could take the physical file with me, in floppy disk form, and no one would ever see what I wrote (which is also dumb, because as a writer, shouldn’t you WANT people to see what you are writing?)
For years, because people I love knew I loved this machine they would send me supplies. My grandpa (the ice cream historian), who had the same WP sent me all his old files, which is how the name Ice Cream Socialite came about.
He also sent me a few different printer fonts.
And one birthday, my husband bought me a ton of printing ribbons and some new floppy disks for my files that I keep in a drawer labeled “ribbons.”
I made other disks, with goofy on-point titles such as Boy, What a…Characters for stories like Giant Grant, and Scared Sarah, and Old Boys for all the stuff I’d written in high school.
Everything from the first disk I ever used (complete with a file that Kelly Bennett opened and wrote in all about humping and boffing some skinhead dude in Sweden) to my attempt two years ago at NaNoWriMo is on that thing…
Uninformed, embarrassing rants, unfinished stories, terrible poetry, and unsent letters (to Patrick Kelly). Goodbye.
I wrote some of my favorite stories on that gross, old machine. I guess it’s time for me to find a new way to write. But, god dammit, I don’t want to. I really really, really don’t want to.
Also, since I’m here