I was in a retrospective mood last night, which led me to take a look at my old journal. Covering an eleven-year time span from 1992 to 2003, it’s everything you would expect from the journal of the twentysomething version of me. Self-indulgent, overly dramatic, and occasionally perceptive. I’m struck by how much time the younger me spent worrying about so many things: finding a job, not having enough friends, whether this girl might actually like me. I had a tendency to write many of those journal entries late at night, which probably explains why I come off sounding so emo. And the writing itself is…not good. I recognize it as mine, but it isn’t anything I’d want to include in a portfolio.
But my younger self was right about a few things. He was pretty sure it wasn’t impossible for him to see Paris. He was determined to live on his own someday. And he understood that he needs to keep writing because it’s the only thing that helps him make sense of everything.
You are right: your older writing didn’t have the quality it has now, but it was interesting in some way. I personally like your style better as it is now. Some entries are so funny they can make my day.
I hope you are addicted to writing by now, since I am addicted to reading a few blogs.
But mind you, it’s not funny when readers are unable to give some comment, as is sometimes the case.