I’ve gone and done something stupid. Or even stoopid.
I’ve gone and lost my novel. Not the only copy I own of it thankfully – I’m so paranoid about “backing-up” I have copies littered on hard drives and servers the world over. But a copy. A full unexpurgated copy.
I had it on a memory stick. Handy things memory sticks. They allow you to transfer data all over the place willy-nilly. It meant I could foist a copy of my hard worked tome onto anybody that showed the slightest interest in reading it (I counted looks of horror as indicating an interest).
Unfortunately memory sticks are also damned handy at getting themselves lost. It was in my coat pocket one moment – not the most secure of environments, I admit – and gone the next.
It could be anywhere.
Lying on the floor at work. Lying on a pavement somewhere. Being uploaded as I type onto someone else’s computer for them to submit to a publisher as their own work.
I’ve left myself wide open to plagiarism.
I’ve now had to panic buy another memory stick and a jiffy bag to quickly send a sealed copy to myself through the post so I can postdate and prove my authorship.
Technology is great. It allows us to take huge shortcuts in all of our endeavours. But it also opens up shortcuts to monumental disasters as well. For God sake, don’t give me a CD containing people’s confidential medical records or you might find them left on a train somewhere.
And as for the title of this post... well, those of you who’ve seen The Shawshank Redemption will get it.