The writer and the work

I have a spectrum of reactions when I read things I've written some time later. Sometimes I make a face, as if to say, jeez, how can I be this terrible? Most often, I shrug: not great but not bad. And sometimes I shake my head in wonder, damn!, did I write this? The latter, of course, provides much of the pleasure of writing. I feel this way about several of my short stories written in the 60s and 70s. About some of my plays and screenplays, including the recent The Brazen Wing. And about two recent short novels (Love At Ground Zero and Kerouac's Scroll). But overall, these make up a minority of my archive. Most of the writing just makes me shrug, not great, not bad, nice try.

But those works I read with wonder are worth all the other!