For all of you who think that being an author is epic, exhilarating, tragic, sexy, I give you my day today. For all who think authors are even averagely savvy, I give you me. This morning I tried to open the Belongingness file I started yesterday. And couldn’t. Because there was no file. I had managed to delete it.
“Huh? What the … “ (That was my internal monologue.)
I searched various drives and clouds and trash bins and hidey holes, ranging back and forth and up and down and in and out, looking for Belongingness in vain. I came up with a lot more internal monologue but I won’t write it out because it got repetitive. There are only so many words for blockhead.
After too long a while, I figured out that it would be faster to rewrite the lost pages. There aren’t that many, and I might do a better job with them this time round. So I did.
The work is fine. Yesterday’s version was fine and today’s is fine too. Sigh.
I'm not going to lie to you. As an author, there are high-stakes days when you feel magically inspired or epically frustrated. Think Mozart or Messi or Beyoncé. Think Cersei or Prometheus or Daffy Duck.
And there are days when the face in the mirror reminds you of Fredo.