Sigh.
I am a fuck-wit.
If you don't know what a fuck-wit is, come on over and have a look.
I still can't figure out how I wound up with the only copy of my work-in-progress novel being a version from September 22nd. Somehow all the work I'd done and all the versions saved since then went into the trash and, being a little compulsive (as fuck-wits are) I emptied the trash. Bye bye 3+ weeks of work!
Thank god for Mac Time Machine. It saved my ass, though only after a great deal of psychic pain and self-flagellation and the waste of a good writing day (or, if not a writing day, a good day to go for a walk--sun shining! leaves changing color!) But the fuck-wit was inside grinding her molars down into stumps.
About the only thing I feel proud of today is the fact that I have not turned to the gin (yet). Later, once small people have been toted to piano lessons and other forms of cultural enrichment, I, the fuck-wit, have a date with the gin bottle in the freezer.
4 comments:
Oh, dear. I feel your pain. And isn't there something delightfully Dickensonian about the word 'fuck-wit'?
Now I understand your facial expression on Friday when I saw you and #1 son walking home--i thought maybe he had a bad day at school or something. Sorry!
Gin can make you sin.
Have a good time but, be careful!
Sorry to hear about your loss; happy to hear of your recovery!
One of my cyber-friends lost an entire 50,000 word novel manuscript during NaNoWriMo and had to start from the beginning again.
The most I've ever lost is 18+ pages, but I was able to rewrite it, and I think it was better than the original!
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