On a whim, I dug up my old “writing portfolio” last night. It was late and I was exhausted, but my mind yearned for something:
I’d been struggling all day to compose, write lyrics, pick a blog topic… but it was one of those days when no ideas stick and all efforts are frustrated. My heart warmed, though, as I snapped open the old plastic binder in which I took such pride. I remember a friend of mine in high school had her own “writer’s portfolio” and we carried them like children and melodramatically declared them to be our very souls.
There is a bit of truth in that ridiculous statement. As I thumbed through the old pages, I saw flickers of my past that I’d forgotten. All at once, I revisited my bedroom late on school nights where I lay scribbling a story instead of weaving dreams. And I saw myself on the floor on a sunny afternoon, telling myself fairy tales in ink instead of playing outside.
I found etchings of my face and mind at different ages in the ever-evolving handwriting; from the ostentatious signatures of my elementary school writings (in which the “e” of my first name became a looping heart) to the chicken scratch of my high school years and eventual printed type, I met myself in those papers.
Skimming the stories I loved so, I see the growth of a writer. Glimmers of the novel I am drafting and the woman I am becoming shine even in those early pages of limping syntax and predictable plots. Every now and then, a single good sentence or word stands out and says, “There is hope for you yet, Scribbler.”
I have come a long way since drafting tales such as “The Magic Drinking Glass” (which is not without its charms) and have a long way yet to go before I publish anything as marvelous as Ray Bradbury’s “The Veldt.” Still, as we all learned in elementary school, stories must have a beginning, middle, and end. Looking back on my beginning in these old stories inspires me to persevere in this messy middle as I work toward that the end: a future as a published author.
In this hodgepodge of childhood drafts, I did find three stories that stood out among their peers. I was reunited with the first that I deemed good enough for competition: “The Painter.” I also unearthed one which truly reflected something of my soul: “The Window Washer.” Finally, I found a draft that I must revisit now; it was oddly prophetic, though I drafted it years and years ago.
There is no real point to this post, reader, but to encourage you. Whatever your art, look back on your younger creations. In doing so, you too might remember a few important lessons…
First of all, creating something simply for your own joy is worth it. Most of these stories will never see the light of day, but they kept me entertained during dull high school classes and nights when sleep eluded me. Rereading them, I remember those late nights and sunlight afternoons and find again the joy of telling myself the story that I wanted to hear.
Second, handwriting is a work of art in itself. I’ve become increasingly digital, but I make sure my journals are always handwritten. It’s just more personal. Something about lying awake scribbling in a notebook feels more intimate than typing.
And, finally, you are meant to create. A bad day does not make you a bad artist. You are not writer’s block; you are the piles of paper covered in words that came from your imagination alone. Be the writer that you wanted to be as a child and do not let those many hours spent practicing go to waste. Perhaps one of those drafts will even be worth revisiting.
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