For me, writing is a passion.  It’s a love.  A true love.  And like any true love, there will be bad times along with the good, heartbreak along with the joy, tears with the smiles, tragedy with the triumphs.  And there will always, always be expressions of a dramatic nature.

I intend, over time, to introduce you to each one of my books.  It is only by a chance that I chose Aiden’s story to share with you first.  Perhaps I am in a melancholy mood.  Perhaps it is my darker side sweeping its cape over the keyboard to control the words.  Or perhaps it is simply because something I heard yesterday called this story to the forefront of my mind.  I don’t think about it very often, but I will never forget it, and the memory will always carry with it a sense of loss.

Aiden: Child of the Star was to be my first attempt at middle-school fiction.  I think this story must have come in between the conclusion of Love Makes a Difference and the start of Blue Skies.  The first few pages, possibly the first chapter, were written in the one-inch margins of my notebook paper during my Social Movements class in college (it was a rather boring class).  I don’t remember all of it, but I do remember the first sentence: “It was the boy that found him.  Jack.”  I can recall images, a couple of sentences, fuzzy scenes, and a general plot.  Not enough to start again.  Too much to start again.  It would never come out right.  I would never be satisfied.  But I so want to finish the story.  I feel like I owe it to my characters:  Jack, Carmen, Mojo, Aiden.  Every time I think of them, I feel a loss, and a kind of frantic desperation to try to get the story back.

Here’s what happened.  Back in the darker days, before I was wise enough to back up all my files, I was typing Aiden on my old dinosaur of a Toshiba laptop.  I don’t remember exactly how far I was into the story, but it must have been at least five or six chapters.  Enough that I was committed.  Enough that I was attached.  I set the laptop down for some reason, and reached for some object that I’m sure, in the grand scheme of the effects it was about to cause, was trivial and meaningless.  I hit a glass of water and spilled it all over the keyboard.  Despite my immediate actions, dumping, toweling, blow-drying, grabbing my dad for assistance, it was a lost cause.  My computer was fried.  And we never were able to recover the document.  Aiden and his friends were lost to me.

The trouble is, it was a good story.  It won’t let me go and so I can’t let it go.  I know the story is gone, the words are lost to the clutches of water damage.  But each time it crosses from the periphery of my thoughts into perfect view, I desperately start scrambling to think of something we haven’t tried, a method of retrieving it from the nothingness and bringing my characters and their story back within reach.  A tragedy.  A loss.  These are the pains that go along with the love of writing.  And yet, it’s always worth it.

– S.D. Bullard


~ by sdbullard on April 3, 2012.

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