The shame. I was sorting some papers the other day, and I came across some old writing of mine. I was young, I was impressionable - och, what am I saying, I was bad, plain and simple. These are skits, if you want, that I wrote when I was something like 16, probably thinking that I could actually speak them in front of an audience. Thank god I never did. But I haven't changed. My penmanship has hardly changed (handwritten, how quaint...). My writing hasn't changed. My attempts at humour haven't changed. Well. Let's hope that these have, at least a little bit, because otherwise, you have no excuses, really.
There was also a speech I'd written for my parents' wedding anniversary, and that was OK. But then, I was around 20 at that time. What a difference 4 years make.
But it's made me think. What have I done with all the novels I started? Did I - shudder - throw them out? The stuff of which Nobel prizes are no doubt made? Or, at the very least, Jilly Cooper novels? Without the sex? Man, that woman... taught me English, and what English!
So yes, my novels... Always full of enthusiasm at the start, but unravelling pretty early on. Ring a bell?
Still, I would have liked to read them again, if only to see whether I could steal anything...
Steal from myself, can I be any more desperate? Well, yes, I can, people! Just you wait and see.