I often say I didn't write for 25 years, but in moving out of the house I've uncovered tons of stories that were started and never finished. Because they were usually inspired--that is they rose up and demanded to be written--they're actually pretty good.
I have absolutely no memory of writing some of them.
They are orphans, belonging to nothing, with no context.
I'm going to throw them away. They're a trap, trying to get me to go backward instead of forward.
There is always more were they came from; much more. I've got all the faith in the world that I have enough ideas in my head to write forever. No sense trying to resurrect the dead.
I also have a foot high stack of business journals, and I once thought they'd be full of cool ideas to write a book about small business. Then I wrote my book about small business and found the journals were mostly my griping about the same damn things over and over again. Which was their purpose, in a way. I wanted to spare Linda having to hear it, so I vented on paper.
These will probably also be tossed. I've always have this experience with diaries. Reading them later just makes me cringe, not be nostalgic.
I'm ready to write new stuff and have fun.
I'm just at an age where I don't see the point of hanging onto this stuff.
13 hours ago