Our topic today, class, is something very important to writers everywhere — a crucial concept that many fail to grasp until it is too late, and they are left to weep and cry out against their own mistakes. This concept is called Backing Up Your Work.
In other words, dear readers, I have lost my flash drive, and think I might actually cry.
My dear little flash drive has been my loyal and constant companion for months now. I dug it out of the lost-and-found, where it had been for over a year, erased everything on it, and began carrying it around in my pocket at work. I frequently end up switching desks several times in a day, and keeping my writing on a flash drive seemed a great way to keep it mobile without depending on web-clouds that might crash at any time or, more realistically, be inaccessible on the sometimes-aging library computers. It contains notes and half-finished chapters of at least three writing projects, an armload of photos I needed to take off my phone, my budget, and a host of less consequential things that I nevertheless made frequent use of.
Without my little electronic friend, I find myself at a total loss. To do much on Project A, I need notes from the flash drive; Project B I could possibly move forward on, if I could remember precisely where I left off. I could work on Project C, I suppose, but A and B are really the more urgent. What’s a girl to do? Should I start trying to reconstruct the lost material? The very prospect is exhausting and depressing in the extreme. Surely it’s better, for now — it’s only been three days — to keep wracking my mind for where it might be, hoping and praying it might still show up.
When it does — please, please when it does — I will fall on my knees in joy and gratitude… and then back up my stuff from here to kingdom come!