and you can't access your flist. I've been going through my filing cabinet, plus an old cupboard which is piled full of previous years' tax returns, old house plans, etc - the sort of miscellanea that gets thrust into darkness but never thrown out, just in case. Anyway, I rediscovered a folder full of stuff I wrote in the early 80s and promptly forgot about. And for the most part, that's a good thing. It's mainly awkward, self-conscious stuff, done for a creative writing class, plus an embarrassingly awful MarySue or two that I should burn but I just can't bring myself to do it. Like killing cane toads; I know they're ugly, they serve no useful purpose, and they're poisonous, but I feel really sorry for them getting such a bad rap and I live my life around them. I don't want to SEE them but I don't have it in me to do anything about them. That's exactly how I feel about these bastard literary children of mine. They're horrible and should die in a fire but I just can't do it.