Then, of course, I pulled out an old diary — from ’86, not that old. Was actually rather entertaining. I was attending Day Treatment at the time. [Day Treatment was a mental health program.] I think I was trying to make my diary fun to read. I have all these journals full of poetry and prose. It’s quite amazing. All this stuff. A resource. It can take credit for it. I can loot them for the good stuff. And say, oh, I wrote that. Hm. I’m glad I wrote all that. Even if much of it’s crap and much of what I write now is crap. Not all is crap. I don’t know how to talk about this. It just seems weird. I have a readaboutable life.
The next day (1/16/89 “Martin Luther King Jr. official b-day celebration”) I continued this thought:
I’m starting to look at my journals as a treasure trove. You run your hands through the pieces, the woven & wrought lengths or rings or garments, some are unremarkable, disappear into the pile, some seem to sparkle. So today I typed up ‘Mrs. Alabaster,’ a storyish thing I wrote in 1986. I’m going to send it to Fantasy & Science Fiction and see if it’s good enough to attract comment. I’m dissatisfied with it as a story but I like the prose.
“Mrs. Alabaster” attracted a rejection slip. Any comment? I would have remembered a comment.
Since I’m looting my old diaries “for the good stuff,” I thought I’d give a nod to my old self and all the “crap” he piled up that I now “run [my] hands through.” Here’s to you, me!