Well, that was . . . interesting.
Some of you have probably heard me talk about how I began writing fiction for the first time when I worked on my romance dissertation in 1991. Turns out that was a lie. That last box went deep into my past and along with several shocks came half a dozen folders full of typewritten mystery fiction–typewritten means the early eighties or even seventies–that i had completely forgotten about. After I read a couple of pages at random, I knew why: I was blocking the memory. Geez, it was bad. But still, there are folders of this stuff.
There were other inexplicable things. Like why I put my Literary Theory notes in a Garfield spiral notebook. I don’t even like Garfield. And some things weren’t inexplicable which was worse. Lotta memories in Das Box. Whoever said to give that box a Viking funeral without looking into it, that might have been good.
But still, there is now a place for everything and everything is in that place. And along the way, I cleaned out my closet, did my mending, and almost finished the baby blanket for my editor. I also put autumn leaves on the mailbox, did all the laundry, and cleaned out the car. I think there’s something wrong with me. Or maybe it’s just one of those turning points in life. Time to get rid of the old to open up the future. Anyway, I’ve still got an incredible mess in the studio–although it’s all art mess and fairly new so there won’t be any more historical time bombs–and boxes of books in the hall, and the kitchen needs cleaned and so does the bathroom. Too much stuff. But I’m on it.
But I’ll tell you, after Das Box, I had a drink. And i don’t drink. Do not look in old boxes, people. The dead walk again.