Last week, on the trip back to LB, I found an old booklet of mine lying around in at Cel's apartment. It was a print-out of old stuff I'd written before. I was a bit embarrassed by it, and I had wanted to grab it and take it home, but I figured they'd already probably read it already. I decided to leave it there.
It's the same embarrassment I feel when I read old stuff I wrote on my old website. Probably the only reason I haven't taken the old site down is because I'd feel guilty, because I know some of the stuff there still means something to other people, even though it barely means anything to me anymore.
I hadn't written, nor tried to write, stories in a couple of years. I often wonder if I really do want to write, because, when I think about it, my main motivation for writing all these years has been to impress some girl. Writing came easily enough to me (writing, not *good* writing), so it was an easy way to at least draw a little bit of attention to myself.
Now you could see why I'd be embarrassed.
I remember reading an interview with Conrado de Quiros, where he was asked if he ever wrote to try to woo a girl. He said he never did, because as good a writer as he is, he felt that it hardly seemed fair.
Good for him, I guess. Me, I need all of the help I can get.
Actually, I've had this story on my mind that I've been meaning to write for the past couple of years now. For the past couple of years, I couldn't get it out of my system because I couldn't figure out how to tackle the subject. Then when I finally had it figured out, something similar happened to a close friend of mine. While it's not the exact same situation, I figured the topic was too sensitive for me to try to write about it so soon.
SPeaking of that friend, I wish he'd come to talk to me about that situation. I think I would've been able to help. At least, I'd have made him read about Tristan and Isolde.