Took a little trip down Memory Lane last night. Was rather refreshing, horrifying and humbling all at once. All my old writings -- from the incomprehensible to the down right print worthy (if it were finished) -- gave quite a show. Most, I admit, are forever housed in the slosh pile, but in them; in those basic, plotless, coreless pages are seeds and sparks just itching to be turned.
I go through the pile each time I think my work unworthy of sight, or I'm too uncertain to look at the page, but, also, when the good ol' days of starting out come back for a visit. Talking with another author friend of mine (Hiya, Trish!), we played back the old tapes of our early days. Those days most never speak of in public.
It made me go back and look at pieces half that age. In doing so, I found aspects of a current work -- the novel nearly complete -- that had been lost during so many rehashing of plot and substance. Aspects I wish could have been saved, except if I did, the book would be 600 pages long.
Still, it was a good reminder of where the characters need to go. Some must return full circle -- and they will. Others, they will grow -- hopefully for the better. But, I would have missed it, if not for the rehashing of old times and bad writings. I would have gone on wondering where a memory or backstory was, what it was that the piece and the character was missing at the core.
For that, I'm thankful every day I keep the old pages, the pea-brained, heartless,anything but full of substance works that every writer has, at some point, written, regretted, and hidden away (via trashcan or safe-deposit box). I could fill a room with all I've kept, but, in there, somewhere among those pages are ideas, sparks of future answers, and hopes of past stories that need tending. And sometimes, a new page to play on.
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