Oh, the Places You’ll Go!

The Paper Trail

I seriously debated whether this story was blog-worthy, but an unnamed twenty-year-old told me to roll with it, so…

First, I should explain my writing process.

When I’m working on a novel, I often compose in strange places (the cemetery, the hospital, the beach, in my car, the food court at the mall, in bed…you get the idea). For these writing sessions, I use junior-sized legal pads (the rainbow ones are my favorite!) and awesome steel mechanical pencils. Later (usually the same day, if not within the hour), I type these writings into my computer.

This system, although a little unruly, worked for me until…

One night last week I got inspired at bedtime and scrawled out a couple of pages for my current work-in-progress. Then I went directly to sleep. The next morning, I typed the pages into my computer and crumpled the hardcopies and chucked them in the trash.

Big mistake.

Upon closer inspection of my WIP, I realized I’d omitted AN ENTIRE PARAGRAPH in the transcription process. A paragraph I couldn’t remember. A paragraph that was vital for the paragraphs preceding and following the omission to make sense.

So what, right? Just make up something new to tie those loose paragraphs together. No biggie.

But somehow that was impossible. (Don’t ask me how. I can’ t explain it. It just was.)

THIS IS WHERE THE STORY GETS GROSS. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

My only two options at this point were to scrap the pages I’d written the night before or go digging through the trash.

The trash in question  was not sterile, office-type trash. It was household garbage that was on the verge of needing to be emptied.

And we have a cat. An old cat with kidney problems (meaning: the cat pees a lot) and a sensitive stomach (meaning: she sometimes vomits). I had just emptied the cat’s litter box (thank God, it was bagged!!!) and cleaned up her kitty puke.

Oh, and I’d killed a spider.

So…under all this icky stuff somewhere was that missing paragraph.

I held my breath, put on a pair of gloves, and went to work. About five minutes later, I got my grubby paws on that ball of pink paper.

The paragraph was stupid, but essential. I memorized it, dropped it back into the trash, de-gloved my hands and rushed to the computer to bang it out.

Was all this trouble (and possible exposure to life-threatening germs) worth it, you ask? I’d have to say yes (mostly because it made me feel like I’d suffered for my art )

My advice: Always keep a paper trail! You might be sorry (like me) if you don’t.