SO I sat down to write last night, the first time I've attempted such a feat since the external harddrive went kersplat over the weekend, taking my entire body of work with it.
I honestly had no idea how hard it would be.
That everything I'd ever written--stories sold and unsold and unfinished, notes and novel chapters and interviews and raw transcripts--was suddenly and utterly gone was, by its very absence, a tremendous burden. How can a negative be such an intangible and imposing presence?
Rather than attempt to continue or rewrite existing short stories--they'll be recovered some day, after all--or start something new (of which I've done no research) I figured I'd keep it simple and turn my hand back to Memory. My production on that serial has been irregular at best, but since it was a "make it up as I go along" project, I should be able to simply pick up where I left off. Except that every few lines, I found myself wanting to refer to my notes, currently locked away inside the dead drive. "What color is moironteau blood? I know I wrote that down!" That sort of thing. Over and over. Most of it, I'm convinced, was unnecessary contrivance on my subconscious' part. It wanted to double-check simply because I couldn't. The fact that I'm the world champion at finding reasons not to write didn't help, either.
I hope it gets better with time. Surely it must. Because right now, this crap's tedious and slow going. Give me instant gratification any day of the week...
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