The more of these old writings of mine I put up, the more vital some explanation feels! I swore I wouldn’t explain my thoughts since a keystone to writing is allowing interpretation, but still, knowing something of the background can be, particularly in this endeavor, quite useful.
First, I am clearly not the writer that I once was. From 11-14, I think I spent more time trying to be prolific than good. From 15-20, I understood the need to be prolific, but mitigated with time refining that writing. After 22 (mostly,) my writing didn’t cease, but most of that found its way from computer to computer and aren’t in scope for the undertaking of getting these masses of water-damaged papers typed for posterity.
In some ways, I regret that my most recent writings are out of scope, but if I change the project before completion, I may lose the old, or just be drowned under the masses of water-bloated pages that overtake my dungeon demesnes in their effort to make it look like a psychotic, oversized squirrel’s lair of stinky nefariousness.
At the same time, I take a strange pride in being able to view my own development in a snapshot. This is why I categorize every entry by a year (although some I must estimate or make a logical guess upon.) I know, without a doubt, that Ethelor was the earliest and a product of a writing class. Oh, how the struggle to produce so many paragraphs was daunting to my childish self. I toiled, thwarted by making full sentences! I still liked the final product (though am shamed now at seeing what it is, compared to my prideful elementary view that THIS would be a work of literary genius that people would teach in classes) although so many words and full sentences was so difficult, I decided I would devote myself to poetry instead. Yes, I learned the error of that presumption. And looking through by year, the progress is fascinating.
I enter this as a side note to ensure nobody is mistaken by dreams of grandeur or even a faulty imagined quality. Some of what I post, I consider horrible. Some of it, I find amazing. Better than I might do now, for an unfettered, youthful imagination is a strange and beautiful place.
writingthentonow 