I can’t remember how I got there, but I found myself reading a very old post of mine the other day. It was something I posted during my second month blogging. I wrote it after I came across something I’d written years before… and… well, I won’t repeat myself… you can read the post. I’ll wait…
(originally posted 24 October 2015)
This afternoon I read a story I wrote years ago, and for the life of me, I cannot figure out how I ever managed to get through it. It made me incredibly anxious. It’s a good thing – a piece of writing so compelling it affected my psychological state – even when I already knew the ending. But I’m still tense now. Read the rest of this post →
Here’s the thing: I wish I knew what story I was referring to when I wrote that post! After thinking about it for a few days, I think I may have figured it out… but I’m still not sure. If I’m right, it’s not a story I’ve shared here. Maybe it’s too painful for me. I don’t want to cry. That happens way too often lately already.
I really should have left more of a clue in the post… even if just for me. I could have just dropped in one of my working titles… Warning Sign. Unless, of course, it’s not that story.
Now I feel like I have to dig through all of my old notebooks to confirm that I’m right. Maybe that will occupy me for a few hours… or longer. Too bad I feel guilty when I engage in such selfish, fruitless pursuits.
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