I love going back and poring over old writing projects of mine. It always feels like revisiting old friends to me. I grew up with some of these characters, and like anyone who’s ever picked up a book or a movie or a song and treasured it over the course of their lives, every time you find yourself turning back to that one treasured book, song, movie (or for me, revisiting old stories, old characters), it feels like coming home again.
Sometimes I find myself cringing at the way I wrote back then, seeing how far I’ve come as I learn more about myself as a person, as a writer, and more about how to improve upon my craft, but still, when I go back, I always push myself to look past my past failings, and to see the stories buried deep within the words themselves.
To see the worlds and the lives and the creations I dreamed up in my youth. I remember how they drew me back then—how the secret worlds spiraling through my mind called out to me, begging for my attention, begging me to bring their stories to life, and to share them with others.
Even now, as I comb back through my old writings—worn notebooks, pages creased and falling apart with age—I find it’s just as easy for me to fall into those stories now as it was back then.
I love every minute of being a writer. Even when inspiration strikes in the midst of chaos and a flurry of activity, I love it. I love it for the way it allows me to hear one phrase from anyone’s lips or one line from a song and sends a shockwave of sights and sounds and tastes and smells cascading through my mind.
I love it for the worlds it’s opened me to, for the hundreds of lives I’ve lived over the course of my lifetime. I love it for the way it colors my view of the world as I find myself moving through it, trying to find my way in it.
I’d never have it any other way.