Requiem for a flash drive


Alas, poor SanDisc! I knew him, Horatio; a device of infinite storage, of most excellent quality; he hath borne my writing on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those wires that I have carried I know not how oft. Where be your files now?



This is how I feel after this morning. The lanyard that I use to haul my flash drive everywhere, caught on the coffee table. Big deal, get a new lanyard, you say. Sure thing, but that’s not the problem. What went wrong was the flash drive, still in the usb port on my computer is now broken. Not just the housing, but the Important Parts, the insides, the guts of the thing.

All my writing, YEARS of it, was contained therein. Yes, my novel I’ve started pimping to agents, its sequel, other random ideas, my fantasy epic that has languished, all of it.

So, why didn’t I have it backed up? I’ve been asking myself that same question all day. Trouble is, I’ve come to the realization that the backup was also contained on the flash drive.


The Spousal Unit assures me that he can fix it. I have faith. I don’t know if I can stand the raking through drawers in search of random items he cannot name when questioned. I’m not sure I want to deal with the hours of frowning concentration, short answers and general temper tantrums when something doesn’t go well. I’m not sure I can bear the smell of solder. He’s a good boy and he tries, and he wants to succeed.

I want him to succeed too.

But, if it all goes to shit, as I’m afraid it will, I’ve made my peace. With any luck, someone somewhere that I’ve emailed a copy of my novel to will still have it and be able to send me a copy. Or the email I sent it in will still be sitting there, and I can try to retrieve that. The Huge Epic Fantasy Story That Won’t End needed a rewrite very badly. Maybe this is Someone’s way of nudging me in that direction. Well, more of a stinging slap than a nudge.

I can take a hint.

So, whatcha doin’?

Shamelessly filched from thefilter

WARNING: This post is likely to greatly resemble a Seinfeld episode. Stuff goes on, but nothing really happens.

Much like my writing.

I wasn’t a big fan of the show, but the concept is interesting to me. You see, in my writing, stuff goes on, but nothing huge happens. Nobody jumps out of a helicopter over the Vatican with nothing more than a sheet of Visqueen, lands in a fountain and lives to tell the tale. Nobody jumps out of anything. They have families and lovers and dads and they live their lives. Some yelling happens, some crying sometimes. People rag on each other and also admit they love each other. It’s life, granted it’s life that has sprung (not fully formed) from my fevered brow, but these characters that take up so much of my time and imagination are people. Even my fantasy characters have strengths and flaws.

My point? Do I need one? Maybe my point is that I don’t have the kind of imagination that produces superhero symbologists or international spies. Honestly, if I had the free time to research the information I’d need in order to credibly produce a mystery or thriller, I’d have to be of independent means. What I do know about is a smattering of topics, ranging from veterinary medicine, horses, music, quilting, gardening, to art, and other really trivial stuff. (No, seriously. I kick ASS at Trivial Pursuit.) I do want my characters to live and breathe, not be caricatures of a type, or one-dimensional. If I could do that AND write an awesome adventure/thriller/spy/police/self-help (okay, maybe not that last one) novel, maybe I’d already have a publishing contract, book deal and movie options lined up.

Still, I’m sticking to my guns. I write for me first. I can’t stop, so I might as well does what makes me the happiest.

See, there’s that happy ending we always secretly hope for in a story.