||[Sep. 7th, 2005|03:07 pm]
My writer friends will really understand this I think, (Hi Salanelle)
Damn I hate it when I am creating away on the computer and "crash" word/net whatever closes and I lose my work. There is no getting that back! To re-write is to imitate or even copy-cat yourself, it's always less, It's like the shell..and the guts-the creativity, the emotion, the feeling is all gone. You never remember exactly how you constructed that sentence, paragragh, page. That creative flow...all gone. suddenly you are aware that you are typing and creating...you are no longer in your head living, breathing and feeling the piece....maybe that's why it hurts so much...it's like losing a memory.
There is something very sickening and nauseating about your art just disappearing into the never never. Cold chills, shivers, grief, agony, fear, bereavement, panic, the shitty frustration.....that futile "nooooo!" and scrounging through words whatchamycall it, disaster recovery thing....Oh the hope! the prayers...the "please please please" to the mini computer god meditating on the motherboard. "ommmm".
I have word set to auto-saving every minute...but every writer knows that you can fill an entire page or more in that minute! but even one sentence lost...I feel like diving into the computer screen...hands out stretched, trying to grasp the tail end of it... if I could just grab that full stop...maybe I could pull out that whole sentence, and stick it nicely back into place (after checking that all it's fingers and toes are intact of course, and smothering it with little grateful kisses xxxxx).
I know art often gets destroyed, and it is always a huge loss...but to be destroyed/lost within seconds of creation? To be bearly just created and then "poof" It really brings to mind the elusive, transient, perhaps transendent nature of art....which could be perceived as beautiful...but not by the writer who has just lost the bleeping lot.
It's times like this I hope Yeats was right, that there is a universal consciousness....and that somehow/somewhere what I have created is known, and benefits, outside of me. That somewhere my creation still exists.
Good bye little sentences, you served me well.