Yesterday, when I was supposed to be hard at work finishing the edit for Blink, I got hit by the cleaning bug - or rather I should say I got hit by the 'sort through all your old shit because you're going to be moving and you don't want to cart it around again' bug. The house is now messier than it was when I started, but so far we've thrown out at least a half-dozen bags of old crap.
I now have two large piles of old printed drafts to shred. We also have a rather large box of old 'important papers' to shred, too. I'd like to start a bonfire, but it's against city code, and I'd rather not get a ticket.
One thing about doing this, though: Discovery. While I was going through my keepy-savey boxes, I discovered my first book ever. Written with a friend when I was 14, and about 3/4 of the way finished. It's a sci-fi fantasy thing. Futuristic but with magic. It's probably YA, because we were YA when we wrote it.
I also found my poetry folders from around that same time. Ack! I wrote some real angst-ridden crap back then. I should probably destroy it, but I can't bring myself to. After all, I got the Silver Poet award AND the Gold Poet award off those poems. I got invited to have my bio in a Who's Who of Poets. I got all sorts of offers of publication (which I'd be able to prove if I had only had the money to buy those books... dammit.) Heh.
I am a notorious packrat. At least I was for years and years. I've gotten better because I've moved so damn much, but still it's hard to get rid of the old junk. I have at least 5 printed drafts of Spectacle sitting here (not to mention the numerous drafts and backup copies on my harddrive). On the bright side, at least my daughter gets to see everything. Which may or may not be a good idea. After all, the quote yesterday that killed me was: "Mom? You shouldn't show me all your old school pictures, if you want me to respect you... You were soooo cute."
Ummm. Ack. Apparently being cute in kindergarten is a killer when you're trying to lay down the law to a teenager. It's just a cross I'll have to bear.
Come on out there. Your turn. What's clogging up your closets? How far back does your writing memorabilia go?
And when are you going to spring clean?
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