It happend to me too, once. I had written a beautiful piece of non-fiction, a short but quite inspired text. I grew very proud of that piece of work to the point I considered it far superior to the fiction I was writing back then. Then one day I deleted it accidentally. I don’t even recall how I did it but it disappeared. The other thing I do recall with clarity is my despair. The one time I had written something that was vibrating, intense and thoroughly honest, it went away. It got lost inside the niches of the memory of the machine I used to produce my writing, my dreams and my only fresh air.
Now wasn’t I pissed off? This is the right way of saying it, but more than that, I felt betrayed, I felt disappointed by the occurrence; why did it have to happen to me and with such a good piece? I felt like I was a victim of a big injustice.
A few weeks later, when I calmed down, I realized that maybe, that piece of writing wasn’t supposed to stay. I don’t even recall what it was about, but soon after I wrote a substitute piece for it and in that draft I talk about the deletion of the former text and what it was about. In a way, I made it live again through the new writing, which described extensively the meaning of that piece.
Thanks, Anna; illuminating as always.