You take a road trip but aren’t asked to drive. You have nothing but time on your hands as you sit in the backseat for the twelve-hour drive. You are amazed to realize the car is actually quiet. You’d left the kids at home. There are no small people complaining about the need for snacks and a potty break every twenty feet. No arguments about someone’s elbow extending too far over the shared armrest or whose turn it is to pick the movie. You’d almost forgotten how travel, sans children, could be.
You think, I’d better take advantage of this rare opportunity to write. With that kind of uninterrupted time, you are bound to make some significant headway into your neglected manuscript.
You put in your ear buds and start typing. After a few false starts the words start flowing and they are beautiful. You know that deep down these are scenes that are going to somehow survive through editing relatively intact. Thousands and thousands of words later, you press the save button. A message box opens up. Upload pending.
Ah, that’s right. There is no WiFi in the car and you have your word processing program set up to sync automatically to the cloud, a precaution you took after you nearly lost a portion of your previous manuscript to your aging computer’s blue screen of death. You click a few more buttons and shut the computer down. The writer’s euphoria stays with you for the rest of the day. Man, that scene was awesome. You daydream about future glowing reviews. You start actually looking forward to editing if only to bring the rest of your draft up to the same high standard.
The next day you wake up refreshed having actually slept in your own bed once again. After the colossal effort from the previous day, you think today might let yourself off with a light writing day. Maybe catch up on a blog or two, or possibly write a piece of flash fiction for a contest, but first, you want to make sure you sync your previous day’s writing to the cloud.
You open your word processor. A message box opens. “Would you like to sync?”
Yes please, you think to yourself. A progress bar opens. As you watch the bar fill, your eyes happen to notice the side bar navigation. Funny, I am pretty sure there were more chapter headings there yesterday. You scroll down as the file completes its upload. No other chapter headings are shown. Odd. You start feeling bile build in your stomach as you jump to the last page in the file.
“I think I found stairs.”
It wasn’t the glorious last line you knew would keep your readers turning the page. No. They are the last words you wrote three days ago, the last words that were synced with the cloud before your road trip. You’d forgotten the function works in both directions. Fudge (except, like in the Christmas Story, you aren’t thinking fudge).
What to do now?
- Click on File>Recover Unsaved Version.
- Stare at the resulting message box declaring no unsaved versions while remaining in denial.
- Open up every single file folder remotely related to your document in search of anything at all with the word Backup in the name.
- Finding nothing, go online and search for any hacker tips out there that might allow you to somehow recover previous keystrokes.
- Whimper as you realize you are in over your head.
- While remaining in denial, notify your loved one of your tragedy on the off-chance they might be able to somehow wave a magic wand and bring your work back.
- Pour yourself another cup of coffee.
- Consider if it would be okay under the circumstances to spike said cup of coffee though it is before 9am.
- Consider throwing up.
- Return to the manuscript while giving yourself the whole, you wrote it once, you can write it again pep talk.
- Remind yourself that you are a terrible liar.
- Cry some more.
- Recognize that the diet is ruined and eat a cookie.
- Write something entirely different, maybe an attempt at a blog post so that others might share in your pain; someone, at least, ought to be laughing.
- Return to the scene of the crime (because that is what it is, cloud, that’s what it is!)
- Stare at your cursor.
- Drain your cup of un-doctored coffee (pat yourself on the back for remaining strong).
- Start writing once more.