I hate moving. I hate packing, and I especially hate unpacking. The actual loading into a truck I don’t mind as much, but overall the process sucks. That being said, you do come across some cool stuff as you’re going through closets and boxes that you haven’t looked in since the last time you moved. The other day I picked up two boxes that were still taped shut four years after our last move. Me, being in the throw everything away mood, opened the boxes to see if the contents could be pitched.
What I found was my old writing. There were notebooks from high school, manuscript versions from my very first novel I wrote ten years ago, lose pieces of paper with poems scrawled on them and some short stories I barely remember writing. It was a nice stroll down writing lane. As I read one thing after another I got a strong sense of how my writing has progressed over the last
16 17 years (ugh, that makes me feel so unaccomplished). After a rather depressing day of thinking about my future as a writer and whether I will ever “make it”, finding those boxes of lost stories helped to show that over time I really have advanced my craft. It helped me realize that even if I never get published I will still write. I cannot stop creating stories, building worlds, and breathing life into characters.
It is part of me. It is who I am.
Sometimes moving is good. It allows you to shake off the dust from old boxes and see where you’ve come from. Be it old photos, clothes, or writing, it gives you a progression to your life. Moving is not just going someplace new. It also lets you look back to see where you’ve been.