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Crash, Grieve

Our hard drive crashed a couple of weeks ago. I desperately hoped it could be saved, so I avoided writing this post until we knew for sure.

Now we know for sure.

“This letter is to inform you that we are unable to recover data from your troubled hard disk, due to rotational scoring of the platters. We cannot do anything for this problem.”

Sadly (stupidly -- we know), we were not backing up our files, so everything is gone. My head is spinning just thinking about the hours upon hours of work we lost. Fortunately, though all of the work was important, most of it we can do without. Life goes on; we have our health; we have each other.

But I did lose one file that was very important to me. The one file I hoped to never lose.

Most of you know that the most important material thing I own is my writing. Not my blogging, not my journaling, not my research papers -- but my fiction writing. What you are not aware of is that I finally embarked on a lifelong dream and began writing a novel.

Every word was meticulously edited and arranged. I was so familiar with the characters I was writing that they were becoming a part of my life. Barely a day passed where I was not thinking of how their story would turn out, how their lives would start or end, and how they would be impacted by each other -- and by me. How would their lives be impacted by the highs and lows in my own life?

Strangely, I miss them. It feels like they died, like they are gone forever. The idea of recreating them feels impossible, or at least impossibly painful. Do I bring them back? Do I let them go? Honestly, the prospect of starting over is terrifying. All that work. What if I never have the courage or energy to try again?

I never mentioned my novel before because I was afraid of this: “Hey, is your novel done yet? No?? Then when?” I wanted the freedom to take as long as I needed. I wanted the freedom to give up or to fail, without having to explain myself to anyone. Funny I can mention it now -- now that I know my failure was not in giving up, but in backing up.

So, anyway. Chances are that my grief will last a little while. I am devastated that the story is gone. But even more than miss the story --

I will miss the writer.

He Does the Taxes: A Poem

He does the taxes, and
I write a report.
There is something special
about working side by side.

Quietly we get things done,
and sometimes we look up.
Sometimes we look up
and smile.