Reading old writing challenges, I feel as if I'm visiting with a younger cousin.
A young man with all the energy I admire, filled with the potential I envy.
It's a very one sided conversation, mind you.
He talks. Never listens.
Which is a shame, because I've so much to tell him.
Like: a thesaurus is great but words are meant to communicate meaning to people who will need to understand them. So maybe don't lean so heavily on what the cool kids said in 19th century Sussex ...
That said, this kid has passion. And talent.
Raw untapped creativity, without the least inkling of how to use it. Nor fear of writing about unimportant things.
Like Frankenstein's monster learning to use his limbs for the first time. Just swinging heavy appendages towards the light. Farther along he comes and ... he's fallen down the stairs.
It's okay, though, he's young. He'll bounce back.
More and more, I'm coming to terms with this sad truth: I will love the things I produce, most when time has separated them from me and I've forgotten them. Not for the way I felt when making them and not always for the quality of the work. But for being able to look upon something started and finished. Having accomplished a piece. All without remembering how it was done.
It seems my younger self left a magic trick behind for me to try and decipher.
A treasure map back to creative innocence and freedom.
I should be sorry not to pick up the trail soon.
The distance grows with each passing day ...that is houw time works, I am told.
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