As I’ve grown up, I’ve got more and more ashamed of any writing that is more than a month old. I didn’t realise how serious it was until I started this blog, and used to read back on my posts after every few months.
I genuinely feel like my writing improves after every few months, but it’s not because I keep writing and testing new limits. It’s because I come back with a slightly better understanding of myself every time and a clearer view what I want on paper. So it’s realisations that spur my writing on, as opposed to polishing up and improvements.
But something very interesting just happened.
Before I started this blog, I used to write a blog on Blogger. What I remembered of this blog was mostly tainted by generalisations; I was pretty sure the writing on it was immature and unreadable, which was why I had switched over to a new blog.
But I just opened it up after years, and I am left feeling so lost.
Amused and pleasantly surprised, but lost.
The writing is undoubtedly from an era long gone, and yet I connected with it so much. Because she.. me, is talking about things that she loves. And she is so unashamed about them. She continues to write, post after post, not discouraged by the lack of hits on her blog. Most of all, what touched me, was that I was not cringing when I read it.
I just felt a sense of loss, a bittersweet string difficult to focus on because it vibrates so ferociously.
There is so much heart in that writing, and I felt upset because my attitude and my circumstances in life cut that passion off at the bud, before it could even grow into maturity. The tone of all my work now is so different, and although I love the ease with which I can fall into this tone, I do feel betrayed that it is not as easy to shift gears as it once was/
Give it a once-over, if you please.