Okay, make me show my age.
At last weekend's 2-day Writers of the Future conference, they emulated the true Winners' workshop by having us close our eyes and choose an object for a story prompt. The item I selected opened up a rusted lock to a cobwebbed crypt in the sub-sub-basement of my mind, bringing to light the mildewed memory of a story I wrote 36
years ago (beat that).
Following instructions, I sketched the outline onto a 3"x5" note card. Mr. Farland then instructed us to write this story and submit to WOTF by 30 SEP. (oy!
) So I began to re-compose this decomposed tale from ancient memory during my cross-continent red-eye flight home.
However, I just discovered the original tale among my old papers, Smith-Corona typed with whiteout corrections et al..
It seems I recalled the story very well. While there has been maturation of my writing style (and life experience) since then, my younger self had (untarnished) imaginative insight and an instinctual (if imperfect) unerstanding of voice and a neophyte's appreciation of the power of words to elicit emotion.
With the quarter deadline approaching (and my working 12 to 14 hour days at a busy hospital this week), I've begun rewriting this old tale instead of writing it anew from memory--although the latter may be the wiser course if time only permitted. However, rewriting old words and stitching in new ones I fear may result in me laughing maniacally toward the heavens while driving rain and lighting pummels these western Maine mountains. "It's alive!"