It sat there.
Daring me to try again.
And I did. I naively did.
Our pictures…gone… Cute videos of our family growing up are lost too.
Oh, the joys of this digital age. Sometimes I love it, other times I hate it.
All I have are the albums I’ve made and the few favourites that I happened to save on a USB (that is, assuming it’s not fried as well).
Ahh, that feeling of helplessness and despair, knowing you probably could’ve taken better measures to safeguard these priceless memories, these irreplaceable snapshots in time, only to take it seriously too late. And then there’s also the frustration of staring at my almost finished novel. Thankfully it is still saved but I’m unable to do anything but read it until my writing programs are reinstalled and computer is working properly again.
Writing a book is a very personal thing. It’s intimidating, difficult, frustrating, lonely and sometimes even embarrassing. When I mention to people that I’m writing a novel, I feel sort of like a child who is telling the world that someday they’re going to be a NHL player.
Oh, that’s cute.
Yet I go to the library and can’t help but stare at the hundred of shelves filled with every kind of literature and feel encouraged.
Others – millions of others, have gone before me and prevailed. They had a story to share and they did it. Now it sits on the shelf, proudly boasting its accomplishment.
Yes it’s true some are worn from years of being loved by all. Some are ancient and forgotten. Some are displayed front and center – the best-sellers, and some sit in the corner waiting to be read…
But they’ve all been written. They’ve all been finished and all of them, every last one, was loved enough by somebody to make it to the shelves.
So I wait and try ever so carefully to do nothing which may upset my fragile FryMac further and cause more damage to the precious files it holds within.
Knowing that soon my time to write will come again and that one day, my book too will be on a shelf (or perhaps many).