My mental operating system is now officially obsolete.

My trusty MacBook Pro from 2012 has been a digital cockroach that won’t die. I type my first drafts on an Olympia manual desktop typewriter. I should scrap the computers.

That ancient MacBook saw me through everything: websites launched, manuscripts written, and a dead-end journey into NFTs. Then, the cyberworld started sending me “helpful” alerts:

• “Your OS is no longer supported.”
• “Microsoft Office 2019 will no longer update.”
• “Please update to continue Googling things you once knew.”

“Fine,” I thought. “Maybe it’s time.” I bit the bullet and “upgraded,” and I use that term loosely, to a 2020 MacBook Pro. Wireless is anything but. My new to me computer has been nothing but trouble, not including user error.

You’d think moving up just eight years wouldn’t be a shock to the system. Now I’ve got a machine that thinks it’s me, but doesn’t really know me. It’s like a solid-state clone with amnesia.

All the files were transferred over. All the settings look familiar. But every time I open something, it asks me:

“Who are you?”

• “Click on the squares that are a traffic light.
• “Your password must contain a number and a symbol, but not this symbol.”
• “Would you like to link your device to a digital fridge in Kiev?”

I didn’t subscribe to Office 365 on principle. I told myself long ago I wouldn’t be blackmailed by a company that charges rent for word processing. So I switched to Google Workspace. It’s clunky, but kind of charming in a free-range chicken kind of way: Upload this. Download that. I’ll use Scrivener more for word processing. I’ve slowed down, which is a good thing.

Planned obsolescence is real.

As soon as I touch a new device, I can hear it whisper, “You’ll replace me in three years. Don’t get attached.” I, like my computer, am obsolete. The memory is the first to go.

That’s why I’ve learned to stay a model or two behind. I didn’t buy the iPhone 15 when it came out. I have the iPhone SE for half the price, which is emotionally ready for a commitment. I have two iPhone 6s that I use for guerrilla movie shoots. They are WiFi-enabled, so I can use them as little computers.

It’s not just phones and laptops. Remember when microwave ovens were luxury items? My family didn’t get one until the Reagan administration, and even then, it was as big as King Kong’s bread box and treated like a nuclear reactor. Today, you can get one for $49.99 at Walmart, and it’ll probably come with a free Fire TV Stick if you subscribe to the Norton Virus Exterminator.

Same with televisions. Back in the ‘60s and ’70s, the TV was a piece of mahogany furniture with a built-in record player and radio. Now, they’re so cheap and light, people mount them on the wall like electronic artwork.

No wonder my dad never bothered with computers. He didn’t have a cellphone, but took a step on the wild side and used a handheld electronic calculator.

I’m living proof that digital age fatigue is a real condition.

My old laptop is, basically, a typewriter with WiFi. My new one has an identity crisis. My brain has too many browser tabs open. But hey, at least I’m still writing on the new computer. We’re slowly becoming friends.

Maybe it’s not me that’s obsolete. Maybe it’s the world that keeps upgrading past what’s actually useful. After all, you don’t need a monthly subscription to wisdom. Nostalgia still boots up just fine.

I made an Alan Bot that’s premiering in this post. If you have questions about my books and movies, or about my creative motivations, ask away. I’m working on a platform to connect indie writers so we can collectively compete in the marketplace which is dominated by celebrity writers. If you’re interested in becoming a Best Chance Media author, let me know.

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My first novel, A New Dawn at Libby Flats, is a reverse coming-of-age character-driven story with some subtle twists. The story is set in Devils Tower, Lander and Laramie, Wyoming, Boulder, Colorado, Cherry Ridge, New Jersey, and points in between.

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