I finally embarked on a task I’ve been putting off for years: cleaning out old writing files. I’ve gone through the business files, where there was correspondence with editors and agents… Oh, I should be clear. This is print correspondence, hailing from the days when we still sent letters through the mail. Also, stacks of printed royalty statements, each one more discouraging than the last. Most of the latter I’ve tossed; most of the former I’ve kept for “historical purposes” in case some hapless descendant should be interested in how things used to be. Otherwise, all this ancient history can get tossed when I’m gone. All that’s really necessary to keep are the reversion letters, returning all rights to me.

Anyway, the business part of this is basically done. I’ve now hit the forty-year-old ( plus or minus) files containing my early attempts at short story writing, stuff printed out in faded dot matrix (do you know what a dot-matrix printer is?). I really don’t want to look at it. I think I should just toss it all. But I’m not good at just throwing things away and my conscience says I should at least glance at it, and spend a few minutes remembering that early enthusiasm and despair.

“Maybe later today,” she says, procrastinating again.

I should mention my motivation for this effort: I promised myself that once I get rid of these file boxes, I can finally look into getting new carpets for this part of the house—the existing carpet being roughly as old as the stories.

Oh my goodness… one of these boxes contains my mother’s The Bobbsey Twins books, from her childhood and almost a hundred years old. What in the world do I do with those?

Posted on: Monday, January 19th, 2026 at 8:14 am
Categories: General.