Last weekend the strangest thing happened... I found a folder on my PC from August 2009 that I'd not looked at since. Inside it were 10 files with dubious names like Cabbie, The House, and Jerry. Curious, I opened and read what was inside to discover some of the best writing I have ever done. Perplexed, I scoured through it all, only dimly recalling one of the stories called Conaught House.
I had written rather prolifically that summer, it seems, and it's good. It's very good!
But I am stunned that I don't seem to remember having written them. I know they're mine. I know my style. I know my warped imagination. And I know my password to retrieve them... Am I starting to lose my memory?
It appears I've not written anything since. Three and a half years of nothing. Writers block? Nah. Don't believe in it. So why? did my work take all of my time? It's true I should be a lady of leisure so I can write without the burden of bills, but still... I'd been on a roll!
Perhaps I had left them as a gentle nudge. A gift to push the future me back to writing?
I can confirm, it's worked...
©2012 Kari Milburn
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