Recently, I’ve been searching frantically for a new story idea for a novel. I’m terribly fickle when it comes to writing, and I’ve started and stopped plenty of ideas over the past few years (it’s my fatal flaw!). I gradually lost enthusiasm for all of them. However, I found something this morning in the depths of my room!
A story I started on Dec 24th 2002 (that’s 12 years ago!). Five pages, typed and handwritten with ink, accompanied with drawings of the characters. I read it again. It’s bad; too much telling, jokes that make little narrative sense, grammar, spelling mistakes – but it’s filled with more passionate enthusiasm, creativity and wishful thinking than I could ever muster now. It made me rather embarrassed that I’m not like my 14 year old self again.