it being writing, you know, the thing. And good writing thought I last night, bashing it out with the white wine flowing nicely. Do you want to save the changes? says it - no - says I, click, in a flurry of confusion. No! Stop, I mean yes. Wait. OK, wine and mind racing. Shit. All gone. Like it never was. And unrestorable. Just like that. Gone.
And now a day later and a few words of the great novel restored but I'm sure with less of last night's passion about them, certainly a lesser form of greatness and out my kitchen window dem clouds over the sea are either ready for big rain or perhaps it's just night settling in at ten pm and I haven't shut the hens up and the garden looks like a wild meadow and the dog needs walking. And the book needs writing and righting. amen
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4 comments:
Oh bollocks. Words fail me - apparently.
(but where have they gone, those words? They must be somewhere!)
i really like that - they must be somewhere - but there is a meeting of inspiration and timing when it comes to the putting down of words - perhaps - like, they were, at three o'clock, but come four they are no longer, or less pertinent. The lesson I think is drunk writing!! Don't do it!
cheers
oh yes, I have done this too, without the blasted wine. Using my father's Pc it decided to kill the best scene in my novel. I have a feeling it was jealous. It seems odd that the computer doesn't take the dud day's work but always the masterful narratives.... which makes me thing the machine has emotions too.... AND IT WAS JEALOUS!
I know your fever, too, though you say it much better than I.
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