The Problem with Backup

I remember the days when computer files were saved on disc. Diskettes, actually. All my stories were carefully backed up in duplicate. I felt secure.

Technology progressed, as technology will. The floppy disk gave way to higher capacity storage systems—I had a Jaz drive, once upon a time. These cassettes, reminiscent of an 8-track, held an enormous amount of data. But not enough.

Computers came with CD drives then, but you couldn't save onto a CD—like the early PDFs. Then they made CD writers common hardware with your computer. I began saving everything on CDs. Large tubes of them fill a forgotten desk drawer.

Then came the terabyte drive. Holding more storage capacity than a moon-launch computer, this little device, used weekly, safely holds my secrets. Stories are secure at last. My computer wants me to save them to the Cloud. And pay for the privilege.

So I dutifully backup my hard disc onto the terabyte drive. This morning old Terry died. I think my files are still there, but what does one do when one's stories are in jeopardy? I don't trust the Cloud. Rain happens, my friends, and I don't want somebody else keeping my fiction.

Alas, it is time to seek out an expensive expert who will charge me to retrieve what is mine in the first place. Puts a new spin on intellectual property, does it not? These improvements are supposed to make life easier, but instead they mean storage spaces full of outdated media.

I think I'm going back to pen and paper.

Comments

Dusty

My, this thing is dusty. My fans—hi, Mom!—perhaps believe me to have perished in the pandemic. No, it was nonfiction’s fault. Since the pandemic began I’ve had two nonfiction books published and have written a third. With a nine-to-five job something’s got to give. Unfortunately it’s been fiction. Well, the groundhog didn’t see his shadow yesterday, so it must be safe to come out. I shuffled away the rejection notes and began submitting again. I’ve got a backlog of weird stories and maybe some new publishers have emerged? The thing is, don’t you just hate it when you’re in the mood to submit and some lit journal has its window for submissions firmly shut? My last story, “ The Hput, ” was published about three years ago. Oh, I’ve submitted since then, but with no traction. Well, it is winter. I’ve got a lot of stories lined up. I’ve been sending them out again, dreaming of making a dime at what I love doing best. When you’ve been writing for half a century, you l

Too Much Writing?

Has this ever happened to you? Have you written a story that you’ve completely forgot? Not only completely forgotten, but made unfindable? I play games with my stories and sometimes the joke’s on me. Okay, I suffer from graphomania. I write constantly. I do try to keep organized—I use a spreadsheet that has all my submissions on it. It has rejection/acceptance dates (mostly rejection). Lots of information. I decided to list on it every story, whether finished or in process. There are far too many (mostly in process). When I finish a story I often submit it. If I get burned, I’m shy about resubmitting. I often rewrite at this stage. Then, when I feel brave enough, I try again. The spreadsheet is color-coded. There, in the color that indicates finished and ready to submit is a story cryptically titled “The Password.” I don’t remember this story. I can’t recall what it was about or why I thought it was ready to publish. Looking through my electronic files,

Gothica

The other day I asked a friend to define “gothic.” Heavy, dark, supernatural—these were a few of the words suggested. When autumn comes my thoughts turn gothic, and I’m always looking for good gothic things to read. I have blogged in the past about how reading literature that isn’t great is good. I’m serious about that. You can learn a lot by reading poor writing. Some gothic literature is more the former than the latter. Like Dark Shadows novels. Dark Shadows was running on daytime television when I was a child. As a teen I began to read the novelizations, by Marilyn Ross, whenever I could find them. Belles lettres they’re not. Gothic, most decidedly so. That’s why I keep coming back to them. They aren’t scary. In fact, they’re formulaic and predictable. But so, so gothic. Spooky mansions, the Maine woods, forlorn vampire, faded wealth. Even, yes, dark shadows. The stories create a mood I find difficult to locate elsewhere. Inspired by the most r

K. Marvin Bruce

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