Days ago, I lost the file of Her Widow that I was editing. l highlighted the file and dragged it to the back-up on my desktop, but instead of the file being saved, it was converted back to an earlier version and all the changes I had made were lost—gone into the ethers.
Apple could not find the file that was lost. After an extensive, three hour search for it on my hard drive and in my back-up files, Apple pronounced it gone forever, permanently lost. Nor could the computer geek I enlisted restore my work. No one can explain why my MacBook Air, on command to save, erased the file and all previous versions, saving only an old version that did not have 40 hours of rewriting in it. I’m not the first to lose an important file and feel sick.
I have started over, knowing a brush stroke can’t be duplicated any more than a batter can strike the ball again, exactly as he did when he hit the homer. No moment in life with all its magic can be repeated. It is disastrous to try to perform the ballet as danced when everything seemed to come together. No concert is the same the second time around. I mourn the loss but I must move on with confidence that I have the stuff to find new language, and, of course, I have learned the lesson. I am printing out my corrections each day, not just saving the file and backing it up.