On Wednesday, I wrote the final scene for The Tinkers' first draft. On Thursday, I was reading it, playing around with Pages a bit on my iPad, and accidentally deleted it. All of my 60,000-word opus. (Of course, at this point, opus is relative. But still.)
I sat numbly at my lunch table, a bubble of silence unfolding around me. Of course, I couldn't tell my friends; they wouldn't understand. To make matters worse, it was my birthday. I had ruined months of precious writing... on my birthday. Sweet fifteen, right?
I have about 20,000 words saved in another file. However, it's only the last third of the book. I looked it up, but on Apple's help forums, it says there is no way to get it back.
I'm going to literally rewrite everything. Not changing the structure and personalities of a novel, but fighting blank-page syndrome for a few more months on a novel I've already written. I tried to talk to the tech guy at school, but I've already backed it up, so the damage can't be undone, as far as I know.
I don't want to lose my idea. The characters and world have been amazing for me, and I think I've got to give it another try. In the process, of course, it'll be awful. I'll probably hate it, but I've got time and there's nothing to lose, right? (No, this isn't some big scheme just to put off editing... I promise.)
I've also been bored with writing lately. I've been writing short stories, but for me, novels are much more enjoyable than short stories. I love short stories, but novels really make writing worthwhile (and of course, are more salable, but I'm not considering that right now).
Additionally, I haven't been inspired much, which leads to the next segment of my week on writing.
I had this novel idea a few weeks ago and was going to save it for Camp in July. However, I really like it, and so I'm writing it now. I haven't been writing much because the end of the school year has been insane, but once school ends, I'll be working much more on it.
It's called When I Liked Converse. You can read the blurb here. (You all can be proud of me. Last night, I actually came up with seven whole bullet-points about the plot, so I kind of know the climax and how it ends.)
Writing is unpredictable. It's frustrating, mind-boggling, and hard. However, it's amazing. At its core, it's an art. However dreary it may sound this week, it's an incredible skill. It's provided so much richness, creating new characters and perspectives I'd never dreamed of. It's given me a different, more complex worldview. And, of course, it's fun.