Today is the anniversary of the loss of a great man.
My Apple Mac holds the beginnings of (what I hope to be) my first novel. I see it as my little piece of freedom and creativity; the tool, as a writer I would feel, bereft without. My hand writing is so appalling (my primary school teacher, Mrs Rae, would be devastated to hear) that I can barely read my own scratchings in my numerous notebooks. Here, on my Mac, my musings are at least legible.
Even if they aren't novel-worthy yet.