Losing my words
I got the daughter's laptop replaced and have been using it for the last couple of days until I can get it to her. The other night I pulled out The CD, the one that had the backup copy of the book I've been working on for four years. It held 246 pages of well, I can't really say. The CD was blank. I went through all of my CDs. The book was just simply no longer there.
Simply, this bites. It chomped down hard -- pit bull hard.
After shocking the cats and possibly scaring the neighbors with a few choice words at exquisite volume, I just had to cry.
I've been working to let it go since then. I have my handwritten notes, and one day when I have the heart for it, I may go back to it again. The main thing is that I've still picked up my pen and written something every day. I've got an idea brewing for a different book, possibly just a long short story, but it keeps getting more and more complicated. The ideas behind it also scare me, and that can be a good sign when I'm trying to write.
So here, I am, trying to con myself again with the bullshit that all things happen for a reason, but I simply refuse to give up. Some one with good intentions but little tact recently tried to prod me into new endeavors by asking how I could call myself a writer when I haven't been published (not counting grants and marketing stuff) in years (okay, decades). Her intention was to motivate me into finding paying work that aligned with my identity, a good and noble goal as well as one of my aspirations.
Being a little offended and more comfortable with my anger than I have been in ages, I didn't answer her well. I still can't, except for this. Writing is more than something I do. It's part of who I am and how I process the world. I'm not a successful writer. I have so much to learn about the business of writing that it intimidates me sometimes. I may not even be a good writer, but I am a writer.