Ephemera

A couple of years ago, in a frenzy of housecleaning, I threw out most of the contents of a box that held my papers from high school and college. Now I regret doing that. I do not have much sentimental attachment to the ninth grade geometry homework, but I would be curious to revisit some of those essays I wrote about Milton, Keats, E.M. Forster, George Eliot.

I slaved over those things and often pulled true all-nighters. It was a cumbersome process, but it worked reliably. I paced, smoked, fretted till the wee hours of the morning, and waited for inspiration. It always came, and then I typed furiously until the last possible minute, threw the paper over the professor's transom and prayed for the A-minus.

I'm glad to say my writing habits have improved. I think my writing has, too. In fact, I know it has, and I can prove it: I did save a few of my old papers from school, and I cringe now to read them. So perhaps it is for the best that I got rid of most of them.