Tuesday, August 22, 2017

I Know I Put it in a Real Careful Place


I prepared to start back to my novel editing last night, having gotten my writing fix resolved with a handful of blog posts. Hunted up the edits from my two beta readers, and... couldn't find pages 45 through 59 from one of my readers.

Okay, don't panic. I still have my work in progress. And I have those pages from my other reader, but it still wouldn't let me focus, like a splinter in the finger.

My wife, who is one of my readers, helped me look. We searched through every place I might have carried those pages off, then distractedly set them down. Nope. Nada. So, I sighed, slipped on my writing holsters and six-shooters, and said, "Well, I still have all your pages, hon. Plus, it's not as though I'd lost my work-in-progress." Which, as Wendy knows, would've required her to medicate me and have me committed if that'd happened.

Anyway, I called forth my Muse, Fairon, who just kept poking me in the shoulder, saying, "You're a writer. Write."

I sat down, set the pages beside my computer that I needed to work on, noticed there seemed to be too many pages to be just 15 in number. Idiot, I thought, as I counted them out, and there were the missing pages, stacked underneath the other ones. I laughed at myself, went upstairs and told Wendy, who breathed a sigh of relief, as she knows too well how stressed I get with that sort of thing, went back downstairs and got back to work, Fairon saying, "That, my supposedly non-superstitious friend, is an omen. Don't leave your work for that long again."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, and saluted her. She seemed mildly amused/annoyed at that, and reached over and drank my coffee.

"Hey! That's my coffee," I said.

"Quit stalling and write. Good coffee, by the way," Fairon said.

Keep writing, friends.

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