How A Coaster Improved My Writing

I’ve lost count of the days I’ve been without my laptop. These days, when the kid leaves for school (because that happens here), she sets a stuffed animal on my notebook (an actual notebook, my faves are marble composition books and I talked them about here.)

The stuffed animal is a scruffy looking cat with big eyes which Isla has named after me, and insists is my writing mascot. (Still not as scruffy as this one.)

Anyway, the thing is I’m supposed to write until she gets home and somehow have the cat on my person when Isla walks through the door. Which she does after pushing the buzzer on the main door, and ringing the doorbell. Setting off my fright reflex.

She discovered this quirk of my Cerebral Palsy one day, after a weekend walk with her Dad. I had the house to myself, and I was watching Dateline, as you do.

And then the kid knocked on the window.

‘You jumped!’
‘Yes, dear.’
‘Really high!’
‘OK.’

So, that’s something. She can do it, but warns me of other things that set me off.

‘They’re gonna pop ballons, Mumma.’

‘Cats hissing, not good, maybe do something else. I’ll turn the TV down.’

I find fireworks nostalgic, and they don’t really bother me.

In somewhat related news, coasters are dangerous. Stick with me.

Isla sets Lorna the cat near the coffee cup for Lorna the me to start the morning’s typing. I crank up the coffee shop sounds and go. Take a coffee break and lift my Edinburgh mug to my mouth. It moonlights as a soup bowl, but never mind. And because the table in this rented place is not ours to brand with coffee rings, and my husband is practical, there’s a coaster there, too.

Now. I think coffee rings add character to tables. I think coasters are a little over-zealous. Too neat. And I don’t expect them. Like, go away.

About that.

There I was, not expecting a coaster, because character. But the square piece of shit is stuck to the mug until it clatters on to the keyboard, and I jump. Because why not? Because I didn’t ask for a coaster. And anyway, stay on the table. You had one job.

I jump and dump the coffee on the keyboard.

Because Isla wasn’t home to warn me about loud noises. Or something.

And so, I go back to analog writing. Notebook writing. With different pens. Mostly teal pens. Because teal is my happy place.

At some point, I (OK, Neil the techie, computer-hoarder husband) sets up my old, slow, and lumbering desktop (called Truman) which we for some reason didn’t put into storage when we um, down-sized.

I reset all my passwords everywhere, and talk to Truman nicely because he works at all. I chase up all the files I’ve ever emailed myself because I’m lonely, I do that.

All of my bookmarks on Truman are wedding related, because it’s been that long. So that’s nice.

And I’ve kind of been channeling the writer I was 7 years ago, or even longer ago, the one who isn’t so anxiety-ridden.

She’s still there. Hi.

And she (OK, me, ok I) sent so many pages to her husband’s printer (in his office in the hallway) that the printer ran out of ink.

My most recent pages start in my notebook again and I type when I can.

I no longer take breaks by watching entire seasons of old shows, or hour-long blooper reels. I look up home office ideas on Dwell. Those are shorter breaks. Because, y’know, we’re renting again.

And so, I really miss Frank the Laptop, and I still think coasters are dumb. But I’m still writing. Even running out of ink.

Also, I recently read this post on whether an iPad Pro can replace a laptop. It’s kind of controversial, and I don’t have an iPad, either.

And I’m not suggesting that you dump coffee on your laptop if you’re stuck, but find something that makes you run out of ink again. Maybe this.

I have a writing mascot and kid who presses pens at me and checks in when she gets home from school.

‘Did you jump today?’
‘Yes, my dear.’
‘Cool!’

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