(no subject)

[spatch]

Three hours of frantic, good, "this idea is great and this description is perfect and I think this dialogue will do well" writing down the drain because not only was I foolish enough to be editing (and adding onto) the piece server-side, thus throwing myself at the mercy and whim of the Internet connection, but I also preferred this morning to use the text editor which does not dump the unsaved state when terminated abnormally, which also means that I was a wise enough cherub to not bother with actually saving my work at any time because, you know, who wants to bother with that when the fingers are flying?

So I leave you now with the only piece of writing that still exists from this decent enough session (for "Ghosts of Retail" if I've let you look at that) and will curse my overtired brain for not actually thinking enough to save when I had my four or five chances. Sure, I'll rewrite it sooner or later, but it'll never be as good as the stuff I put down today, however fleetingly.

Man, I hate wasted effort, especially when I'm the one who wasted it.

The elderly custodian reached down and picked up a small china saucer
from the floor. The saucer was slightly warped with age, its finish
cracked and flaking in a series of fine spiderweb cracks all over the
dish, and the original white color had yellowed in the heat a long time
ago. Originally its only deformity was that of an unreparable chip around
the edge, and Carl, being an honest yet frugal gentleman, had purchased
the saucer from the Seconds department years ago for the sole purpose of
using it here in the basement. Now he reached into an inner pocket in his
overalls, pulled out a slim metal flask, and carefully poured its contents
into the saucer, making sure not to spill a single drop. He wet his finger
on the tip of the flask, tasted just the slightest bit of the rum, and
then with trembling hand set the saucer back on the ground in front of the
rumbling furnace. It made no attempt to thank him, but Carl knew his job had 
been

Comments

[signsoflife.livejournal.com]

Would you kill me if I said I'm dying to find out what happens next?g

[spatch]

Nah, I wouldn't kill you. I want to know what happens, too.

(If I'm on a writing jag, I frequently pace myself so I stop at a part that makes me want to know what happens next -- it's kind of like Completion Insurance. Compels me to go back some other time and continue. Of course this leads to more cliffhangers than any one person should ever write in their lifetime, but thankfully that can be ironed out and written over once you go back for edits and additions.)