So I’ve been going through my junk writing file. And partly because I wrote most of it while not fully conscious, and partly because I haven’t filed or tagged any of this stuff since some time in March, I’ve entirely forgotten writing most of what’s in there.
Which is cool and weird and confusing.
Cool and weird because reading your own work like it’s somebody else’s can be awesome. And I came across the first iteration of something I wove into Drink Me and it’s always interesting to see how much something like that has changed. Or how much it hasn’t.
But more often it’s confusing, because absent the context given by the roiling thought process that brought the idea forth I often feel like I’m reading a page from the middle of a book and I don’t know what’s already happened or what comes next or even what genre the book is in.
Paul S: You know sleepy!Kandace is crazy.
Me: Sleepy Kandace is so crazy.
Even when the gap between me writing it and reading it back is five hours instead of five months I sometimes forget why I wrote what I wrote. So if it doesn’t seem self-explanatory,* if I think it might be misinterpreted or maybe not interpreted at all, I’ll add a note. Something in brackets to explain what’s going on, what I was thinking, and how I thought this fragment of text could be used.
Yesterday I came across a couple of lines of text that still do not make sense to me. Possibly because in the brackets underneath instead of an explanation there was… well, a poem.
The poem makes a lot more sense than whatever it is it was supposed to be contextualising but more sense in this case doesn’t equal a whole lot. It is poetry, after all.**
Given that I’ve apparently started explaining myself in verse, I suppose I should just be grateful that so far I haven’t lapse into rhyming couplets. I really don’t want to start finding limericks in my notes.
There once was a wizard in space
Who was really something of a head case
He liked to set things on fire
And as the flames grew higher
He… finally realised they should have been in the fireplace?
I should never write poetry.
* A definition I should narrow because I am occasionally far too sanguine about the things I will later find self-explanatory.
** And no, I’m not sharing it with you guys. Unless someone with substantially better judgement on these matters than me tells me it doesn’t suck. I wouldn’t hold your breath. But look, I wrote you a limerick, that makes up for it, right?