Now, I know some authors might name drop fancy apps, sleek white minimalist keyboards, or those delicate fountain pens with gold nibs that require ceremonial ink rituals… But me? My tools are a little less... romantic. A little more indestructible. And, dare I say, a little more clunky with character.
Once upon a time—cue flashback shimmer—I wrote all my stories by hand. Not just a page or two, either. I mean boxes and boxes of handwritten notebooks, full of scribbles, side notes, doodles in the margins, entire character backstories I forgot existed until ten years later. My early stories were a workout for my wrist. I had pens running dry faster than a coffee pot in a newsroom. It was chaotic. It was glorious.
Typing those books up? A mission. A translation project. A cryptic decoding effort worthy of Indiana Jones. There were arrows. Stars. Entire paragraphs stuffed sideways in the margins like they were trying to escape the story. Sometimes even I couldn’t tell where I was going with it.
But then… the ThinkPad entered my life.
Ah yes, my old ThinkPad laptop. And when I say “old,” I mean the kind of old that could probably vote in some states. That matte black, chunky creature has been with me through so many books, it deserves royalties. Forget featherweight notebooks and shiny MacBooks with color-coded everything—this beast is built like a tank. A tank that occasionally groans when I open too many tabs, but a tank nonetheless.
One time, I left it on the porch. Overnight. During a rainstorm. Do you know what it did? It didn’t die. It didn’t short-circuit. It didn’t throw a diva fit. It just looked at me like, “Dude. Really?” and carried on like the loyal, slightly sarcastic companion it is. If my laptop were a character, it would be the gruff detective in a noir film who’s seen it all, smoked a thousand cigarettes, and still solves the case.
Yes, someday a software update will finally break it. I know that. I dread that day like a Victorian heroine watching her lover ship off to war. But until that day comes, I’m typing on that keyboard like it’s the steering wheel of a literary spaceship.
And don’t even try to tempt me with those flashy silver-framed options out there. They’re pretty, sure. But my heart belongs to ThinkPad. Because to me? Black is the new black.
So, here’s to the trusty tools that see us through: the pens that inked our first plots, the paperbacks full of handwritten dreams, and the battle-worn laptops that never give up—even in the rain.
I’d love to hear about your favorite writing tools—what can’t you live without when you're in the zone?
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