Tonight, I took a moment to look back through some of my old writings—nothing special, just some shorts I whipped up in record time for this writing contest or that literary magazine during my first years away at college. None of them made it. And I can see why: they’re not great. They’re mostly cheese, a playful tug at the heartstrings because I thought that might be what a publisher wanted to see at the time. They weren’t stories I wrote for me; they were stories I wrote for someone else. Which is rarely the basis for great art.
But even the stories that get lost on the shelf, for whatever reason, are valuable. I’ve often commented on the idea that when we create something, that artwork is a conglomeration of everything we are in the here and now, and I stand by it. It’s what makes it art: it’s personal. But it’s personal in a way that reminds us of our shared humanity. And even the little bits of flash fiction, or unfinished novels, or that short story that never really went anywhere, are a reflection of this. Even the most rejected pieces hold a sliver of our lives between the pages. And when that day comes, when we unearth that long-lost attempt from our filing cabinet or old flash drive, we’re given an invaluable opportunity to remember.
Even in the midst of all the cheese, and the amateur style, and the so-obvious roughness of a first draft that never went through a second or third, we’re given a moment to remember who we were when we created it—what we had, what we desired—and get a closer look at who we are now. Because the moment that thought or memory leaves our head and enters the page, it becomes sealed in time. It’s a fragment of who we are, forever preserved. Waiting to be picked up again, and remembered.
I know not everyone out there celebrates the holiday that’s coming up—for a variety of reasons. And I’m not asking you to celebrate it if it’s not for you. But as one creator to another, I hope you can take a moment to evoke the idea behind it, and look back on some of the things you’ve created that didn’t go anywhere—that stayed on the shelf, or in the back of your closet, or is currently gathering dust in a corner—and be thankful for it. For what it might represent: a memory you cherished, but hadn’t relived for a while; the person you were long before this dreadful year, before that regretful life choice, before that unfortunate circumstance, when the future still seemed bright.
But, most of all, be thankful for the chance to see how far you’ve come as an artist. Not every work of art is perfect, but it is still yours. And it always will be.
So, be proud of it.
For everyone who celebrates, and everyone who doesn’t: may the rest of this week bring you bliss. From all of us here at Nocturnal Mind.
— C.M., C.O., C.Q.
Night Owls, tell us about some old creations you’ve recently unearthed. Why did they go on the shelf? What do they mean to you now? Were you surprised to see them again?
