Many years ago (before there was an Internet), I began a book. Life happened, as it so often does, and I never got past the first three chapters. The book was begun in good old Word Perfect for DOS (if you’re old enough to remember DOS, congratulations; you’re a survivor), and at some point converted to .doc format in an early version of Word. Then, as computer files tend to do, it vanished.
The other day, I was sorting through some old backup drives, and found a folder full of various writing-related odds and ends. In among the scattered notes, idea files, and other bits was this scrap of a book. I pulled it into Word, and read it.
To my surprise, it’s not half bad.
I have since imported it into Scrivener, and have yet another unfinished novel sitting on my computer begging me for attention. This makes seven.
I really do have issues. In an earlier post, I called it Writer’s Flood. I think, at this point, I’m drowning.
I’m most definitely no longer a spring chicken. To get all of these books finished and submitted somewhere, I’ll have to live a very long time. I guess I’ll consider that incentive, pull a title out of a hat, and start writing.