I think the most writing I ever got done in my life was when I was in college.  I had an electric Smith/Corona word processing typewriter and I was working on a novel. There was something exciting about being in college and working on a novel. My roommates would tiptoe around me while I worked, not really understanding why I chose to spend my time at the typewriter instead of doing any number of other things. I didn’t let them read it. I didn’t let anyone read the novel until I was in graduate school and I joined a writing group. By then the book was done, but I didn’t do anything with it. I still haven’t done anything with it. The saddest part of all this is that I don’t think I have an electronic copy of it anymore. I wrote the book on an old Mac Classic and saved it to floppy disks (remember those?). I still have the disks, but I’m not sure how I would find a computer to read them, let alone get hard copies off of them.

I have one copy of the manuscript somewhere in our crawl space. Last I looked I was missing about twenty pages, and maybe they are there, just jumbled between other chapters. Sometimes I’ll lazily think: I really must dig that thing up and rework parts of it, but I never do. Still, I have such a soft spot for that book–and for the person I became as I wrote it. I think the book is good, actually; or maybe it’s not. Maybe I haven’t dug it up because I want to preserve some idealized impression of it.

Maybe.

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