In my post from earlier this year, “Attaching labels to the dreams we chase,” I mention a weekend-long (remote) writing workshop I attended, and the subsequent “book of sorts” I penned. During those three days, I bled sweat and tears, my emotions raw and, at times, forcing me into a fetal position on my nearby bed. I swore, I wanted to quit and I cried. A lot. Yet, I persevered and completed the workshop along with a semblance of a story I hoped I’d return to one day to rework, rewrite, revise. More than six months later, that day came and went with nothing to show for it. Despite the three copies I had saved of my work, my book had vanished. All 50,000 words I’d poured out through my fingertips. Although I had backed it up, there were other avenues I could’ve taken to better protect it. But perhaps it’s simply not the story for me to tell at this time.

How do you protect important files?

Photo courtesy of Stuart Miles at FreeDigitalPhotos.net.