The other day, I spent forty minutes searching for a single line of dialogue I wrote six months ago. Forty minutes. By the end of it, I had opened seven apps, three browsers, and what I think might have been a portal to 2012. The line? Still missing. My will to live? Also missing.
This is what I call Digital Chaos—the Bermuda Triangle of creativity, where good ideas vanish and half-finished drafts go to die.
My desktop looks like it’s auditioning for a reality show called Hoarders: The Cloud Edition. There are folders named “WORKING DRAFT,” “WORKING DRAFT 2,” and “WORKING DRAFT 2 (REAL THIS TIME).” I have a document titled FINAL_FINAL.docx that contains nothing but the word “Hi.” And don’t get me started on my Notes app. It’s basically a digital junk drawer stuffed with passwords, grocery lists, and the opening line of a memoir I swear I’ll write when I’m 90.
Writers are especially doomed because we’re compulsive collectors of sentences. We hoard words the way squirrels hoard acorns—except squirrels actually know where they bury their stash. I’ve got one brilliant line hiding in Scrivener, another trapped in an iMessage thread between a dentist reminder and a meme of Nicolas Cage, and a third scribbled on the back of a CVS receipt that I’m 98% sure went through the wash.
The cost isn’t just clutter—it’s momentum. Every time I dive into Dropbox to find “that one scene,” I get distracted. First it’s a lost file. Then an old draft. Then—bam—I’m Googling “How many ferrets is too many ferrets?” The draft is forgotten, the flow is broken, and Digital Chaos wins again.
Of course, I’ve tried to fight back. I’ve developed elaborate naming systems (“essay_FINAL_V5_reallyfinal”). I’ve attempted monthly purges (“delete five files, reward self with Doritos”). I’ve even promised myself I’d keep everything in one app. (Spoiler: I now use six.) But Digital Chaos is like a hydra: delete one messy folder, three more sprout up, each labeled “Misc.”
So, no, I’ll never conquer it. At this point, I’m just trying to negotiate with it—like a hostage situation where the captor is my own Dropbox. If I can carve out enough order to keep writing, I’ll call that a win.
Because honestly? Readers don’t care if I have twenty drafts buried in the cloud. They don’t care about my tragic collection of half-finished essays. They only care about the one I actually finish.
Digital Chaos will always be with me—like that one weird cousin who shows up uninvited but somehow brings good wine. Annoying, unavoidable, but maybe… kind of part of the fun.
And Now a Fiction Break (with notes)
Loss Of Faith
Patty dialed Andrew while competing with a soccer mom in a Range Rover for the last decent parking spot at Jefferson Elementary. Victory was hers—parallel parking skills honed by years of San Francisco street warfare had finally paid off in suburbia.
"Andrew? It's Patty. I'm having wine withdrawal symptoms and Faith is my only supplier of decent gossip. Is she free tonight?"
Andrew's chuckle crackled through her car speakers. "She left this morning with that ridiculous sun hat—you know, the one that makes her look like she's heading to a Jane Austen tea party. Grabbed her tote bag too. I figured school, but honestly? She might be having one of those 'fake sick day' mental health moments. She's been acting weird lately."
"Weird how?" Patty's investigative journalist instincts—okay, fine, her neighborhood busybody instincts—kicked in.
"Just... secretive. Whispering on phone calls, checking her messages constantly. Either she's planning my surprise birthday party three months early, or she's joined a cult."
Patty's stomach did a little flip. She'd noticed Faith's strange behavior too, especially after that doctor's appointment. "Speaking of weird, when's her follow-up? The ultrasound thingy?"
The line went dead silent. Then: "What ultrasound?"
"You know, the mammogram follow-up?" Patty's voice pitched higher, like a soprano hitting a particularly challenging note.
"Mammogram? Faith said everything was fine. Clean bill of health."
"Oh! I must have... misheard something." Patty forced a laugh that sounded about as natural as a three-dollar bill. "Wine brain, you know?"
But Patty's brain was crystal clear. She'd seen the terror in Faith's eyes when she'd whispered about the callback. That wasn't the face of someone who'd gotten an all-clear.
Three days later, Patty's phone buzzed. A text from Andrew: Faith's hat and book were turned into the Morro Bay Police. She's not answering calls. Driving up now.
Patty's coffee mug slipped from her hands, shattering on her kitchen floor. Faith in Morro Bay? A working fishing harbor? Faith couldn’t even stand the word “fish.”
Four hours later, Patty stood in the Morro Bay Police Department, feeling like she'd walked into a TV procedural. Detective Martinez, a man who looked like he'd stepped out of a noir novel but talked like he was still in a sitcom, held up Faith's belongings.
"Distinctive hat," he said, turning the wide-brimmed monstrosity in his hands. "And this book..." He squinted at the cover. "Up and Down California in 1860-1864 by William H. Brewer. Real page-turner, I'm sure. It's about hiking the Nine Sisters—those volcanic peaks around here."
He opened the book and showed Patty the inscription: This book belongs to Faith Stoneman.
“The system says she’s gone missing.”
"Faith doesn't hike," Patty said flatly. "She considers walking to the mailbox cardio."
"Well, someone saw her with a large Polynesian gentleman near Morro Rock yesterday afternoon."
"What?" Patty's voice hit a frequency that probably confused nearby dolphins.
"You know, taggers—kids who spray paint their territorial marks like dogs marking fire hydrants."
"I know what taggers are! What Polynesian man?"
Detective Martinez raised an eyebrow. "Thought maybe you'd know. Her husband said you two don't keep secrets."
The word “secrets” hit Patty like a physical blow. Faith's panicked face flashed in her memory, along with that whispered conversation about the doctor's appointment. How many secrets had Faith been keeping?
"Describe him," Patty demanded.
"Big guy, probably six-five, traditional Polynesian tattoos on his arms. The taggers said he seemed to know her well—they were talking like old friends."
Patty's mind raced. Faith had never mentioned any Polynesian friends. In fact, Faith's social circle was about as diverse as a country club board meeting—mostly suburban moms who considered ethnic food anything that wasn't served at Applebee's.
"Where exactly did they find her things?"
"Tidewater Rock, just north of the main beach. Tourist spot. Lots of people around during the day."
An hour later, Patty stood on the rocky shoreline, salt spray stinging her face and her anxiety level soaring. The sun hung low, painting everything in that golden-hour light that would have been Instagram-perfect if she weren't potentially investigating her best friend's disappearance.
Something colorful caught her eye, half-buried in the sand. Kneeling down, she brushed away the sand to reveal a torn piece of fabric—unmistakably from Faith's favorite sundress, the one with the ridiculous tropical print that made her look like a walking vacation brochure.
But this wasn't just any torn fabric. Someone had spray-painted two words across it in neon green: "DON'T WORRY."
Patty stared at the message, her heart hammering like a woodpecker on espresso. She pulled out her phone to call Detective Martinez, but stopped when she noticed something else. Footprints in the sand—two sets. One small, definitely Faith's size. The other huge, probably belonging to the mysterious Polynesian man.
The prints led away from where the fabric was found, heading toward the parking area. But here's where it got interesting: the smaller prints seemed to be keeping pace with the larger ones. No dragging, no signs of struggle.
Faith had gone willingly.
As Patty followed the prints, her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: Stop looking. She's safe. Some secrets are worth keeping.
Patty looked around the empty beach, suddenly feeling like she was being watched. The setting sun cast long shadows across the rocks, and every shadow seemed to hide a potential threat.
She typed back: Who is this?
The response came immediately: A friend. Faith will contact you when she's ready. Trust me.
Trust? Trust was what had gotten them into this mess in the first place. Faith had trusted her with half-truths and hidden fears, and now she was missing with a mysterious stranger in a town four hours from home.
But as Patty stood there, waves crashing around her feet and the spray-painted message clutched in her hand, it occurred to her Faith might not be missing at all.
Maybe Faith was exactly where she needed to be.
Dear Liz Dubelman,
The feedback from the judges on your 1st Round submission for the Flash Fiction Challenge 2025 is below. We hope you find the feedback helpful, and you are proud of the story you created. Congratulations on advancing to the 2nd Round of the competition kicking off at 11:59 PM (New York time) on Friday, August 1st, and best of luck!
''Loss Of Faith'' by Liz Dubelman - WHAT THE JUDGES LIKED ABOUT YOUR STORY - {1927} The first paragraph packs a punch full of information about the situation and the characters. Funny views of Faith through Patty's eyes. It's great that we never see Faith in the story but know all her quirks from Patty's references. Some great descriptions like her Jane Austen tea party hat. Some fun similes (e.g. "three-dollar bill"). {2535} Patty's voice came through well in the story, and helped build a character that is really suited for the cozy mystery/amateur investigator genre. The ending was also executed well, with the lack of clear answers and only hinted explanations delivering more impact and engaging the reader mored than a clean-cut solution. {2222} A highly entertaining genre mashup of suburban comedy and mystery tropes (complete with outlandish Chandleresque similes). Lively, witty dialogue, vivid characterization, and a highly recognizable setting sketched in with a light, skillful hand. WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK - {1927} The story starts with a sense of urgency, but then it jumps three days. Maybe a little more information of what Patty was thinking/doing in that time in regards to Faith. Want to hear a little more of Patty's inner thoughts as she's out playing detective. Perhaps a bit more of a struggle by Patty at the end to conclude that Faith is OK. And maybe a sense that PAtty has to learn to be OK with her absence. {2535} Since the story is built on Patty and Faith's friendship, it might be worth showcasing a bit more of their connection, beyond what is implied by their gossiping over wine; if the reader is given more specific details on their closeness, the secrets kept will be more surprising. Also, the timing for the footsteps and clues found seems a bit off for the timeline, since they wouldn't keep for long, and Faith had last been seen on the previous day. This could be avoided with more permanent clues, or with a tighter chase, with Patty following right behind Faith's footsteps. {2222} While it's not necessary to tie up every loose plot end, leaving events this unresolved makes your story feel more like an opening chapter than a self-contained piece. This impression is reinforced by Patty's unsettled frame of mind; why does every shadow still seem to "hide a potential threat" when she has already concluded Faith went willingly? You might resolve this issue by partially satiating your readers' curiosity, letting Patty discover one or two more clues that at least hint at where Faith might be, or you might decide to expand this story into a longer form. (Personally, I hope you go with Option 2 - I want to know more about the mysterious Polynesian man!)
Your short story is beautifully written and complete. Not sure I agree with the critique
Maybe a perfect draft was written and mislabeled. A gotcha moment every single file.