In Which the Universe Reminds Me Who’s In Charge

I just wrote a pretty fucking good description of neurotic, Jen-style Writer’s Block.  It was the best thing I’d written all week.  And it came out easier.  There were flights of phrase that I was really proud of.  I hadn’t meant to write it.  I was doing my 750 Words and it just kind of evolved into a pretty good piece.  I had started by trying to answer today’s Trust 30 prompt, and quickly realized that I was going to ignore it in favor of sudden inspiration.  I was going to post it.  You were going to love it.  There were going to be scads of comments.  It might have made me famous***.

I once caught a fish *THIS BIG*.

Then, I went to the bathroom.  Upon my return, I entered my ‘security word’.  My fresh words popped up on the screen, and after 1 second, popped off.  I sat there for a moment, puzzled.  I checked my open windows to see if they were just re-loading.  They weren’t.  I pressed clicked on my Edit tab to make sure I hadn’t just done something that needed UNdoing.  Nope.  I refreshed my screen.  Nothing.

GONE.  They were all gone.  All that was there was the first word I’d posted.  I got up.  I swore out loud.  I swore on Twitter and Facebook. I contemplated punching the wall.  I stared in disbelief.  I swore some more.  And some more.  When I remembered to breathe, I attempted to recreate what I’d just written.  Only to find that my red-burning anger and shock had completely erased my memory.  Insert annoying blinking cursor here.

I hadn’t saved because I hadn’t expected to be writing.  In my life, I’ve ‘not saved’ only ONE OTHER TIME.  In college.  A 35 page English paper (something to do with the Restoration) and I’d waited until two days before it was due to start it.  The feeling is roughly the same.  A sucky, sinking, slightly nauseas sensation residing in the stomach and midchest.  It pools there and soaks, reducing to a burning, lamenting refrain and the dull headache follows straight after.

And so I breathe.  Actively, at first.  There’s nothing I can do.  The Universe has a plan.  It sucks, but isn’t earth ending.  There’ll be other days.  And besides, this isn’t wildly different in tone or spirit than what I’d had on the page and lost.  Writing to replace writing as therapy.  It’s a deeper well than originally thought. Wooooo-sssssssaaaahhhhh.

In the interest of closure, my three dreams:

 

1.  That I wrote on a typewriter (with spectacles and khaki jodphurs).

2.  That I was on my second Passport book because the first one had no more room for stamps.

3.  That I had never lost the retainer I received after getting my braces off in high school.

 

***awesomeness of post may be slightly exaggerated for dramatic appeal.

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