Only forty pages into my work in progress and I already lost a chunk of it due to a computer glitch. Gone. Into the ether. Back where it came from, I suppose. But this stuff happens. It has happened on every novel I ever wrote.
It happens, but that doesn't make it any easier.
I was writing, last night, with the weight of a difficult day on my shoulders. A tragedy occurred on a tangent in my life and I had the taste of music in my mouth. I was swallowed up by a bubble of piano keys and circumstance. I will never recreate that day, that taste in my mouth, that I put into words to the best of my limited ability.
And it's gone.
I tried to rewrite the scene, but came away with cardboard figures, shuffling their feet and scratching their heads while telling a maudlin story that no one cared about.
As a writer, I am tasked with shaking my weary head and waving my weary fist up to heaven and then...getting back to work again, thankful for the experience of writing something that made a difficult day a little easier.