Back in mists of prehistory, (call it 1986 or thereabout)my second novel was eaten by a ferret. A drunk ferret. Owned by one Vince, about whom the less said, the better.
This particularly obnoxious creature had a habit of dangling himself into large beer mugs and drinking. A lot. And then, probably because the little bastard was overfed and overloved, he would find the most inappropriate place possible to relieve himself.
He crapped on a videocassette of Fire and Ice, which was a perfectly appropriate editorial comment on the movie, but cost us about $20.
He ate a hole in a leather chair and used it as a toilet until the smell became too much even for him.
He thought my friend Jamie's air mattress was a chew-toy.
And he LOVED computer disks. I had been writing this epic for almost 8 months (this is back when I still suffered from the delusion that somebody would one day READ the stuff I write) and the fucking vermin ATE the thing. 8 months of work. chewed to death by a ferret.
If I had had backups, it wouldn't have mattered. But this was 198fucking6, and backups were things 'the man' did, we freewheeling longhair counterculture types would NEVER do something so lawful......
I had a dream last night. The Ferret had eaten the Declaration of Independence and I was eating scones.
Because of this meaningful, if somewhat obvious, prompt from my usually-more-subtle subconscious, I will indeed be posting my novel online, somehow, as I am writing it.
I am, at the moment, trying to figure out how to organize this. Expect more within a few days.
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