I keep a box of keepsakes — cards, small impractical gifts, and such — around. I never look at it, because I don't generally have days where I suddenly feel the urge to reread, say, the six-page letter written to me when I graduated high school. But every time I move, I go through the usual triage of what must stay and what can go, and inevitably I end up sitting in sprawling mess of books and papers and clothes, totally absorbed in these years-old momentos. I certainly have no need for them, but they're lovely rediscoveries on each occasion, and utterly worth the space the box takes.
I'm digging through old story files now (buried in recursive folders of backups) and casting a critical eye over them. And some of them actually have a spark that I think is worth reigniting. Naturally, the flaws that kept me from ever trying to publish these stories are still evident — but if I can see them, that's the first step toward fixing them.
When I'm revising a story this comprehensively, I'll often print out a hard copy, prop it beside my monitor, and then start retying it entirely. It's the only sure-fire way for every single word to pass muster into the next draft. And there's a mental comfort present, too: I've finished this thing once, so I damn well can do it again. Better, this time.
Leave a comment