I’ve always been a writer. I was that kid who wrote my own versions of stories after reading the classics, who folded and stapled papers together to make my own “book.” A pad of paper and pen, a typewriter, a computer (depending on which year we’re talking about here). These were my tools.
I was the kid thrilled to get a thesaurus as a gift (yes, true story). I’d sit reading under a tree or in a lounge chair while other kids ran around the neighborhood. When people asked, “Where’s Suzi?”, the response would often be, “In her room/the basement/the living room, writing.”
The new year is a good time to reflect on where I’ve been and where I’m going, and that includes as a writer. Recently, I had the chance to read some of my old stories. (Fiction has always been my jam.) We’re talking stuff I wrote circa 1997. I’m fortunate enough to have saved the papers over the years, and I’m sure there are others scattered in boxes or folders somewhere that I’ve forgotten about. If you’re also a writer and know you have your old material somewhere, go looking for it; you’re probably in for a treat.
Was some of it good? Sure.
Was a lot of it not-so-good? Um, in a word, yes. These were stories written before I really understood the “show, don’t tell” rule, or the “adverbs = mostly bad” rule. (See what I did there?)
For instance, in one story, I wrote stuff like, “I shrieked in disbelief,” and, “I answered sarcastically.” Shakespeare it was not.
(And no, I’m still not Shakespeare. Though I probably wouldn’t want to be Shakespeare anyway, considering he’s been dead since 1616 and lived in a time before indoor plumbing and vaccinations, but you get what I mean.)
The point is, I was writing something, putting in a few of those 10,000 hours toward mastering a skill. In my old stories, I also saw tiny hints that I was starting to get it. I was using dialogue beats. (Mom rolled her eyes. “Stop it, you guys.”) I knew what a hook was, even if it was a little bit cliché-ish. (When we first moved into the house, I had no idea that there was something that lurked in the shadows, ready to appear at any moment.)
(For the record, one of my favorite story lines growing up was, “Kids move into creepy old house.”)
I also looked at my more recent stuff with fresh eyes. Going through my old stories showed me both how far I’d come and what I can do to improve. In short, it gave me one of my resolutions for this year. Write more, write better. Just keep writing.
