I wrote the story a year ago — about an experience that occurred a year before that, a few months into the Obama presidency — and now here it is and I’m running my eyes across phrases and a story I barely recognize. Did I really write this? Are the scenes out of order? This opening is not the right opening. Does this story, two years on, even matter anymore? I’m itching to rewrite the whole damned thing.
I want to rewrite it, but of course I can’t. I’m just the fixer. My words, my story, don’t belong to me anymore.
What happens when you see your thoughts on paper, months or years later?