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It just occurred to me that this fic I’m reading is something I wrote 20 years ago.
Twenty.
Fucking.
YEARS.
Ago.
I can still remember what pens I used, how they felt in my hands, what they looked like. It was 2001 and they were full of glitter and it’s so hard to read my writing now, but I loved them. I collected these stories in an old math binder. The pages are ripped out of a spiral notebook and collated so they’re in order. Glitter still gets on my fingers when I turn the pages.
When we think about how we learn to write, and how hard we are on ourselves for not being “good enough,” remember that the only way we get better is to practice. At 16, I felt like I knew everything about writing and this was the best thing I’d ever done. At the time, it was.
Even if your old stuff is cringey, even if you’re not proud of it - it’s yours. You wrote that. Hang on to all of it so an older you can see how far you’ve come. Progress looks different for everyone.
The important part is not giving up.
Twenty.
Fucking.
YEARS.
Ago.
I can still remember what pens I used, how they felt in my hands, what they looked like. It was 2001 and they were full of glitter and it’s so hard to read my writing now, but I loved them. I collected these stories in an old math binder. The pages are ripped out of a spiral notebook and collated so they’re in order. Glitter still gets on my fingers when I turn the pages.
When we think about how we learn to write, and how hard we are on ourselves for not being “good enough,” remember that the only way we get better is to practice. At 16, I felt like I knew everything about writing and this was the best thing I’d ever done. At the time, it was.
Even if your old stuff is cringey, even if you’re not proud of it - it’s yours. You wrote that. Hang on to all of it so an older you can see how far you’ve come. Progress looks different for everyone.
The important part is not giving up.
