I wrote this?

Every character, every word, every sentence, every paragraph, every page.   I wrote them all.   I remember doing it.   But there comes a point with every single one of them blurs out of that truth.   I can list them all, tell you the names of the characters and their general plot lines, even the behind the scenes trivia that aren’t on pages.   What I don’t truly remember is the works themselves.  I can’t blame that on any medical condition, it’s how it’s always been.   I can reread mysteries because I often forget just whodunnit.   It’s an odd curse, it makes working on the older ones a ponderous task, because I don’t remember them and I have to reread them, numerous times, to prod my memory.


But it’s also a blessing.  I’m sitting here rereading The Last Days of Grace  (again) , and while I could certainly tell you the gist of the work, all of the finer points have faded away.   It’s a rather odd sensation.  I wrote it.  I know it.  But I don’t.  And I get to revisit it all over again, with that odd distance of… I wrote this?   I’ve often wondered if other writers get this distancing from their own works, or do they stay with them, crystal clear?