Color Me Irked
We all misplace things; it’s annoying, but most of the time it’s not serious.
This time, though, I am definitely pissed at myself. About a year ago I wrote down, by hand, some detailed notes about an original novel that I want to write. I was very satisfied with those notes; I thought they had captured all the most important elements of what that book would be.
Now I can’t find them. I’ve searched my home office very thoroughly. I pulled things off the shelves; I removed drawers from my desk and dresser and emptied them. I searched my backup book cabinets in the living room; I’ve pored through old file folders in the hope that I had simply misfiled it. I’ve flipped through all of my notebooks; I was certain I knew what kind of notebook I had written the idea into, but now I doubt my memory.
I am beyond upset. This feels like a cruel trick by my Muse, to give me this idea, fully formed with poetry included, and then pluck it away.
I’ve spent the whole day looking for these friggin’ notes, but now I have to face the unpleasant fact that they’re gone.