Years ago, my mother told me, “Don’t ever throw out anything you wrote.” You have to like that kind of optimism — apparently, she thought my situation was something like Stephen King’s, and I’d be able to resurrect something that would become The Next Big Thing.
Maybe she was figuring they’d want to include it all amongst my papers in the library at Harvard.
Her advice aside, I haven’t saved everything. I pitched a bunch of my Starsky & Hutch scripts, there being absolutely no market for those. And those old drafts of things? Out they went. I have a tiny house with limited storage, and clutter makes my nervous system… nervous.
I did keep one particular jewel, though: the very first story I wrote, back at the tender age of 11. A huge fan of the Batman TV show, I decided I could write some adventures for my favorite hero. That being… no, not Batman. ROBIN. My little 11-year-old heart went pitty-pat every week for the Boy Wonder, and when I sat down to put together the episode I’d like to see, it of course included a love interest. (Cue a few choruses of “Hello, Mary Sue”…)
I’m thinking my mother might have read it. I don’t think anyone else has, up till now.
I had nice handwriting, right? As for the quality of the writing — as the title of this post says, we all have to start somewhere. I was tickled pink with my little endeavor. And the rest… Well, yeah. It’s history.