When I was about ten, I started writing stories mimicking the styles of classic authors I was reading at the time. This amounted to a handful of three-page word documents lined with nonsense gems like “he brought me fine to his grand desire” (from an attempt at Little Women).
Sometimes, twenty-five year old me will write a sentence that I fall half in love with. Half, because fifty percent of me thinks its utterly beautiful, while the other fifty percent can’t help wondering if it makes no sense at all. Like, he-brought-me-fine-to-his-grand-desire status.
But to be honest I don’t even care. I’m writing new shit for the first time in a long time, and I think I might have landed in the middle of my next project. That kind of excitement makes me give approximately negative seventy-five fucks about much else besides more words on the page.