I have been looking at my old writing and feel a bit impressed with myself. Its been years since I have looked at some of these things and the strange thing is, I don’t recognise my style at all. Many are written clearly by a younger, less mature but ultimately more experimental version of me. It’s strange to notice the lessons half learned in a piece that i thought would be the final version of my book. To think that ten years on the story has changed exponentially and for the better is a sobering one. I can see how the characters and the world has developed into a complex and varied entity, there have been hundreds of changes some minor some major and yet the spirit of what I was trying to create, the message remains in tact. I wonder how that has come about. The various exerts of writing seem to catalogue the places I have been in my life when writing them. Theres sorrowful ones written when I was in a dark place, and joyous ones that were written when I was happy. It seems that I have made  a map of my emotional history, which takes just a little bit of reading between the lines to reveal. It made me think about the nature of writing, and why do I write?