Over the years, I’ve started many writing projects. I’ve completed none of them. There was a time when I wanted to write a novel, another when I wanted to put together a collection of short stories, and I’m constantly neglecting my journal. I’m not sure if this was all a wasted effort or if it’ll prove valuable in its own time.
At my parents’ place, I’ve a filing cabinet full of folders with random things that I’ve written loosely filed away. There are also a couple of boxes scattered somewhere between the basement and the garage that hold all of my old journals. In my apartment, I’ve got fewer pieces of paper similarly filed. The paper just seems to pile up and I never do anything about it.
I’m not terribly concerned about my filing system. I’m more worried about the fact that I’ve yet to complete a single writing project that I’ve started. I’m sure that being organised would help keep things together, but will that be enough to see me through to the end?
I just flipped through a binder that I’ve kept most of my pages in since moving to Toronto. There are things in there dating as far back as 2012. It was a bit of a trip down memory lane, but not one that was as painful as I thought it might be.
One of the reasons that I’ve never revisited much of what I’ve written is that I’ve never been dispassionate about it before. This is probably the first time in my life when I’ve been able to take a more rational and disinterested look at who I was and who I think I am now. It’s nice to be able to read the name of an ex-girlfriend and not get choked up by it. It’s nice to be able to appreciate my penmanship from a distance.
This is probably not the same response that I would have to the stuff that I’ve written more recently. How much longer will it be before I do?
Maybe I’ll finally go through all of my old papers this summer. I might even bring back the papers that I’ve kept at my folks’ place. There might be a gem hidden within them.