Lost Files and Other Nightmares
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| Image courtesy of Pixabay.com |
No, I didn't lose my manuscript files. I'm too cautious these days for that.
I lost my To Do list.
Actually, I lost the notebook that I write my To Do list in. I've searched EVERYWHERE to no avail.
I actually stopped writing at this point and checked one more spot. Nope. Although I did find some trash to throw out.
I know the notebook is out there somewhere. I'll probably find it when I'm not looking for it, but for the life of me, I can't figure out where I put it. This is what comes from using the holidays to move and reorganize my office. Yes, I've been looking for the notebook that long!
It's probably with my WIP (work in progress) folder. That's missing, too.
The loss of a notebook wouldn't be a big issue except that it contains the notes for a project I'm supposed to start next week. Plus, I like to refer back to my To Do list to see when I did something.
We've all lost something in our lives: keys, trinkets, datebooks (when everyone carried one). It's disconcerting to know you had it and now it's gone. My granddaughter constantly misplaces her school ID badge. She's supposed to put it in the small pocket of her backpack every day after school. I reminded her every day for the first few weeks of school to put it there, but she refused to do it. She didn't want to take it off. I guess she was really proud of being a middle schooler.
She's not allowed at school without it, though, so every time she doesn't have it, she has to buy a new one for $5. She's paid $20 of her own money this year. I refuse to cover it. One more time, and she gets school detention. That got her attention (I hope). She has an ID on her dresser, in our car, in her Kavu which she carries everyday, and supposedly in her backpack, too. Backups.
Writers know the fear of losing things, too, especially their files. Let your computer crash once, and you'll learn how devastating it can be. Years ago, when home PCs were a new thing, I taught software classes. In every class, I'd remind my students, "Save and save often." These days, most software applications cover that problem for you, but "save often" doesn't solve the crashed or corrupted hard drive issue. Or the weird things that can happen on your computer. For instance, just a moment ago, I started losing text when I tried to insert a word into a sentence above. Somehow, I'd inadvertently activated the Insert key on my keyboard. I can't recall the last time I've even thought about that key. Don't know what it does? Here's a hint, if you've clicked it, you won't be able to insert text. Yes. It writes over the text.
Like my granddaughter and her multiple ID badges, a wise writer creates file back ups. I have multiple copies of everything. Some writers I know rely on the cloud as their only storage. I use the cloud, but I've been in too many places without wifi access to count on that as my only file source. So I back the files up on flash drives and external hard drives, too.
Too bad I can't do that with actual notebooks and folders. I'm off to look AGAIN in all the usual places. Hey! If you find it, I'd love to get it back.
What losses have sent you in a spiral of frustration?
Comments
Have you considered, perhaps, they may lie beyond yours or anyone’s ability to find them? Recently, I encountered such an unsolvable problem. I lost my good hat, a 100% wool watch cap went missing. Several nights later I was awakened from a deep sleep at little after 3:00 AM, that hour when all the world’s grief and mischief emerge for the purpose of tormenting us. My room was filled with a thick damp mist such as those I experienced when I lived in Seattle. Two robed and hooded figures stood one on either side of my bed. I could not see their faces. One placed a long boney finger on my left thigh. I was forthwith racked with the throbbing pain of a sciatic nerve gone wild. The other identically clad extended both hands, the fingers of which were covered with a red viscous substance which looked like drying blood. Of course, it could have been strawberry jam. Then a third figure appeared. She, with her fiery red hair blowing in the wind was dressed in a long white gown. To be sure, there wasn’t any wind blowing in my room. She also wore a form fitted armored breastplate and carried a less than standard size broadsword. With that broadsword, she poked the finger man on his backside, and he vaporized. She then vaporized and reappeared behind old sticky fingers. She poked him in the rump forcing him to also vaporize. She then winked at me, and she too vaporized.
Seconds later, I actually did wake up. The sciatic pain was gone as was the damp mist. Too shaken and puzzled to go back to sleep, I abandoned my room and bed for the warmth of the fire in our hearth. I sat on our couch reading Chris Clark’s Sleepwalkers. Then, I noticed it. There beneath the lamp on the end table was my four days missing watch cap. My son and granddaughter with whom I live had been gone for over a week. The reappearance of my good hat was a mystery.
Being in my 76th year with six damaged discs, sciatica, a prostate the size of a Vidalia onion, a liver that’s damn near a museum piece, and a tendency to remember things that happened 40 years ago much more clearly than those of last week or yesterday, I find myself in some degree of pain all the time. To deal with that pain, I am, of course, obliged to use opioids to take the edge off. I suppose you could assume I was tottering on the front stoop of senility. You must, therefor, correctly conclude anything I say or write may not be relied upon. Still, I have to ask whether there might be apparitions lurking about Greer.
Have you considered, perhaps, they may lie beyond yours or anyone’s ability to find them? Recently, I encountered such an unsolvable problem. I lost my good hat, a 100% wool watch cap went missing. Several nights later I was awakened from a deep sleep at little after 3:00 AM, that hour when all the world’s grief and mischief emerge for the purpose of tormenting us. My room was filled with a thick damp mist such as those I experienced when I lived in Seattle. Two robed and hooded figures stood one on either side of my bed. I could not see their faces. One placed a long boney finger on my left thigh. I was forthwith racked with the throbbing pain of a sciatic nerve gone wild. The other identically clad extended both hands, the fingers of which were covered with a red viscous substance which looked like drying blood. Of course, it could have been strawberry jam. Then a third figure appeared. She, with her fiery red hair blowing in the wind was dressed in a long white gown. To be sure, there wasn’t any wind blowing in my room. She also wore a form fitted armored breastplate and carried a less than standard size broadsword. With that broadsword, she poked the finger man on his backside, and he vaporized. She then vaporized and reappeared behind old sticky fingers. She poked him in the rump forcing him to also vaporize. She then winked at me, and she too vaporized.
Seconds later, I actually did wake up. The sciatic pain was gone as was the damp mist. Too shaken and puzzled to go back to sleep, I abandoned my room and bed for the warmth of the fire in our hearth. I sat on our couch reading Chris Clark’s Sleepwalkers. Then, I noticed it. There beneath the lamp on the end table was my four days missing watch cap. My son and granddaughter with whom I live had been gone for over a week. The reappearance of my good hat was a mystery.
Being in my 76th year with six damaged discs, sciatica, a prostate the size of a Vidalia onion, a liver that’s damn near a museum piece, and a tendency to remember things that happened 40 years ago much more clearly than those of last week or yesterday, I find myself in some degree of pain all the time. To deal with that pain, I am, of course, obliged to use opioids to take the edge off. I suppose you could assume I was tottering on the front stoop of senility. You must, therefor, correctly conclude anything I say or write may not be relied upon. Still, I have to ask whether there might be apparitions lurking about Greer.