Three short stories in and I’m closing the Nook. I enjoy reading; I am a writer. One love does not diminish the other, only informs it.
I lost an adult lifetime of writing somewhere in the ones-and-zeroes of computer files. Journal, fiction, nonfiction, poetry—all of it is gone.
Before admonishments for digital redundancy march up through the comments, my husband and I both recall three different locations to which these files were backed up at various points.
There is no act of piracy; to assume others wish to credit my writing as their own or destroy phrases strung together with punctuation would require the sort of ego I simply haven’t got.
It occurs to me a long-time friend is right. He said I really should publish this stuff. If I had, at least a few well-worded memories would be around to flip through.
Each work of others I read triggers painful nostalgia for what I hadn’t thought to publish.
©2015 Sandra R. Davidson