I have the rough draft of an autobiography written ten years ago, but the older it gets, the less I value it. When fresh from my hand, I took measures to safeguard its data, including numerous backups on CD amid fretful worries that an I/O error might erase all my labor. I imagined it would be useful, supplying grist for a novel that might gain for me material things. Writing has always seemed a viable path for a poor person to gain wealth and influence, even though those already prestigious, like Donald Trump, have an advantage, because people will read them in the hope that some of their magic might rub off.
After some experimentation with online publishing, I downgraded my own evaluation. There are many writers that must be better, because they earn a living by writing, whereas I've never been paid for the slightest article or web page, even though I have designed an entire web site from the ground up and written many articles. Also, while I've received some encouragement via fan mail, it hasn't been often. In ratings competition with other writers, I rank in the middle. Editors of publications have rejected submissions and queries. One draws the natural conclusion from the accumulation of such experiences. I think if I had showed promise, surely somewhere along the line, a proper place for me would have been found somewhere, if only as a writer for alternative newspapers or magazines.
Now I think of the autobiography as false in many parts or misguided or a collection of events only half-perceived in their totality. There is a focus, for instance, upon individuals, eight or ten in number, that I no longer care anything for and vice versa, youthful infatuations that seem like overripe onions to me now, and no one is interested in those biased histories besides the author anyway. I read the stories and think,
what foolishness, and want to bury the knowledge. All the ones I used to place above the Moon and Stars, I now see as unimportant particles of dust. They are better forgotten, and I am only too glad they are strangers to me now. There's no possibility for good as far as I can see.
To dream about the past is an odd and solitary occupation, because most think about the present and the future, always looking to acquire more possessions in the belief they 'win' if they have more stuff in the end. Where is the accountant, and who pays his salary, and why should he concern himself with the trifles of the deceased?
I like writing on a blog as I do now, without any expectations, as a message in a bottle to an alien visitor from another planet. Sometimes, I find posts that I dislike, especially if they expressed anger, and these I delete. My regrets all had their origin in anger. Anger is a relic of our animal origins that I think cannot have much currency in the future. It is a throwback. It had a purpose, even an advantage back in the days of tooth and claw, but not within the context of modern society, I think. Often, anger seems misplaced in retrospect, overwrought, or the result of disordered thoughts.
It is commonplace to see anger expressed in the media. I remember reading the Reader's Digest in the 1970's and 1980's. The Reader's Digest was like Fox News today. Just about every article was calculated to enrage an ordinary person and persuade them that liberals caused every problem under the Sun. I was at one time an avid reader of the Reader's Digest. All my relatives subscribed to it and their opinions were formed by it. And all of it was nothing but lies, a steady stream of half-truths, exaggerations and distortions calculated to turn working people into voters for Ronald Reagan and, later, the Bushes. And it worked. Humans are quite easy to deceive and mislead and can be operated like puppets. This is well-known. No one is immune, no matter how smart. I have crafted my predictions of the future with this in mind.
On the other hand, every once in a while, I read an earlier post and think to myself, "that is not half-bad," and it gives me satisfaction as a kind of validation. If I like my stuff, then that matters more to me than if others do. However, my evaluations change. I sometimes look back on a story that I used to like and find that time and distance have changed my perception. I'm sure other writers must feel the same way. For instance, even the great Mary Renault's early romance novels left a lot to be desired. I couldn't finish any but
The Charioteer. The others just seemed boring.
