By Courtney Pierce
A bountiful and delicious Thanksgiving ushered in a
promising Christmas season. Let the games begin! Lights, wreaths, decorating, and a daily
dose of Christmas movies.
My husband, stepdaughter, and I gladly handed over the $5.00
permit fee to cut our wild Christmas tree on Montana state land. Deal of the century. There’s a
lot of shopping acreage here in the Kalispell area, so we bundled up for the hunt under a
gentle mountain snowfall. The tree we found wasn’t all perfect by retail standards, but that’s what gave it infinite appeal. We even snagged a small one for my
stepdaughter’s bedroom. No worries about having enough decorations. Collectively, my husband and I have an ornament count that spans over forty Christmas seasons. I guess that amounts to eighty Christmases worth of decorations. We selected the best of the best, and we still had an embarrassing excess.
Over the holiday, I had planned to make huge progress on my
next book, BIG SKY TALK. I was nine chapters in and excited to pick up where I left off.
Then disaster struck.
I got a windburn zooming to my local computer to a repair shop.
Two days later, the news made my stomach drop to subzero. I needed a new hard
drive, and nothing on it could be saved. The squeaky-clean new drive held none of my files. However, the tech
gave me back my dead one with a glimmer of hope. He suggested that I contact
a specialty data recovery company with more sophisticated equipment to attempt to find my files. Luckily, there was a reputable one in Missoula.
I know, I know. I can hear your voices chastising me
for not backing up my files and documents for the last six months. I never had a problem before, so
I had become complacent. Shame on me. And shame on Scrivener, my writing program, for
switching from storing the proprietary files in the cloud to saving them on my hard drive. The company never informed me about the change in their process.
I should’ve figured that
computers aren’t the work horses they used to be. They’ve gone the way of televisions and cell
phones. Count on them lasting about a year ̶ or seven months in my case ̶ with
more plastic parts to lower the price tag.
After a promising discussion of my situation with the data recovery company, I mailed off my blown hard drive and
crossed my fingers. I resigned myself to the real possibility that I would need
to start over with my novel. After all, my head held the story. No one could take that
away from me.
Then something started to happen: I actually got excited about re-writing those first nine chapters. It was a chance to start fresh. In a quandary, I had written three different opening chapters and couldn’t decide which one worked
best. I had nothing to lose by shaking out the Etch-A-Sketch.
Some writing coaches recommend chucking your first drafts in order to breathe new life into a blank page. And as painful as it can be, Stephen King recommends we should “kill our darlings.” First drafts are an indulgence of the author; second and third ones are for the readers.
Maybe
there was a higher purpose for my data woes. But all those hours. All those outlines. And all those imaginative brain cells I had killed off. Was I being lazy? Was I trying to be a speed demon
to make my own fake deadline? Possibly.
I sucked it up and started my book over while I waited
to hear the verdict from the tech pros. The longer the silence loomed, the faster I wrote, convinced those draft chapters were lost. In the new ones, I incorporated more detail, evened out the flow, and cut what I thought was
superfluous. The characters started to bloom with personality. My brain fired on all
pistons with the freshness of it all. It was like going into a new job with oodles of direct experience. I made better decisions. I dug in with instinct, not superficial details. I let the characters lead me to bring them to life. All five senses came alive with vivid imagery. I didn't have to monitor the small stuff: the color of the protagonist's eyes, what kind of car she drove, or the style of her clothes. I was now creating living, breathing people.
As I dove into the new Chapter Four, my cell
phone rang. The data recovery company calling, just like Avon.
“Good news, Courtney! Your data is 98% there,” the Tech
said. "But it's going to take us about a week to extract it."
“That’s great,” I said. "I hope my new manuscript isn't part of the 2% of roadkill. Is this going to cost me my first born child that I can't have at sixty?"
He laughed out loud. "This is a Level 2, so it'll be about $700."
Don't get me wrong, I was thrilled to get back my files, but my writing bubble deflated a
bit, and not just about the price. The original drafts of those nine chapters sent my mind into a scramble. Sorting out all of the versions would be like re-installing the old toilet in a newly remodeled bathroom.
When I downloaded my Scrivner files, I created a new folder for those old chapters, but I don't think I'll open it. I'll keep going with the new version. That folder will only be a crutch in the event I get stuck.

And I promise to back up my work at least once a week. The mega-capacity thumb drive I purchased should do the trick, along with the additional external hard drive my husband gave me. I’m
also going to email myself the most important files as back-up to the back-up to back-up.
Happy Holidays to you all! Stay safe and warm, and I'll catch up with you in the New Year.
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Photo: Micah Brooks |
Print and E-books are available through most major online retailers, including Amazon.com.
Check out all of Courtney's books:
When Aubrey Cenderon moves to Montana after the death of her father, the peace and quiet of Big Sky Country becomes complicated with a knock on the door from the sheriff. An injured grizzly bear is on the loose and must be eliminated before it kills again. The sheriff's insistence that she buy a gun for protection will present Aubrey with some serious soul-searching, because the grizzly-on-the-run is hunting for her too . . . for a different reason.