Very little of my old material has survived. I know I'm not alone among those who write who over-analyze every phrase the second it's written. I hate my old stuff. This is with good reason. I am not the same person who wrote all that dorky shit in Intro to Creative Writing.
Writing alone, however, doesn't really do it. I am a different person now because I not only wrote, but submitted. I endured the criticism of my peers. I have little good to say about institutionalized education, but this is one thing I do appreciate. You must participate, not just quietly scribble and squirrel it away.
There's more to it, of course, but a writer is often forged in ridicule, embarrassment, and perceived failure.
In this spirit, I've decided to dust off some of my older pieces. Most of them are between one and two years old, as everything else has likely been lost forever.
Sheets of printed paper and text documents can be trashed, deleted, forgotten. There's a refreshing sort of permanence to publishing like this. It's harder -- perhaps impossible -- to take it back.
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