For reasons known only to the Great Muse, I found myself reading my own old writing. This is something I never do.
Stories that I had long retired from the revise/re-write/submit mill still sit in My Documents. I retire a story when I lose interest in it, or lose faith in its being publishable. I have written stories I will never retire, and stories that got retired quickly. I suspect that had I deleted them, I would have little recollection of these old stories. But while I don’t re-read, I also don’t delete.
It’s a strange experience to read retired stories. I wrote them, but I barely recognize this writer. This is because I don’t write like *that* anymore. Evidence of the evolution of my writing style (at least I hope that’s what it is) are glaring.
It must be like looking in the mirror and seeing a face you don’t know. Something familiar, but no, I don’t know her.
But the Great Muse made sure I didn’t leave without a present. A couple of the stories knocked my socks off. I don’t remember thinking this well of them the first time around. Why did I ever retire these? Could have been a comment from a beta-reader, or from an editor. Comments now forgotten, but the stories are still there, and they amaze me.
They’re back from retirement now, and I make a resolution: what I never do, read my old writing, I will do again.