The last post was the panic of loss of all my writing. The writing was recovered. Not in the polished form it left, but beaten up and still greatly loved. Like a mother who came within inches of losing a child, I have been unable to leave it to write here.
I spent two days backing it up. And have spent the last month trying to organize, dust off and polish and admire. The stories grabbed at me again that I had put away. I needed to see them, read them tweak them.
Since that last post, I have been on a rewriting binge. I learned to take nothing for granted. This story of mine is mine alone.