No, not biological evolution, as in Darwinism. That’s a completely different topic that doesn’t fit on this blog at all. I mean the evolution of the development of our skills and talents.

I’ve been reading the collected stories of O. Henry lately. I’ve always enjoyed the stories of his that I’ve read, but I found a big, beautiful hardbound collection at a garage sale a couple of years ago and decided that I absolutely had to have it. A few weeks ago, I finally took it off the shelf to read.

It’s arranged in order of when the stories were written, which makes for quite an interesting progression as I read. His earlier stories–the only ones I’ve gotten to so far–are nothing like the O. Henry I thought I was familiar with. The depth and wit of The Gift of the Magi is barely hinted at. The stories are mostly very strange and rather silly.

And I love it. I love seeing his development over time. It’s encouraging.

I’ve been going back through my own books and reading them to my husband, and it can get frustrating how cringe-worthy my earlier novels are. They still have many aspects that I love, and I don’t think they’re terrible, but I look at them and see so much that could be improved by the six-years-more-experienced me. I just want to reach into the pages and tweak a sentence here and a cheesy passage there.

But the fact is, if I hadn’t grown and improved since then, it wouldn’t be frustrating. When I wrote each of my books I did the very best I could under the circumstances at the time. And I’ll do the same for books I write in the future. So what more can I do? Looking back on inferior efforts is proof that I’ve come far since then.

I’m sure in six years, I’ll look back on my current works and wrinkle my nose. But I think it’s time for me to stop seeing that as a bad thing. It can be a little painful, yes–but I’d rather think of it as a celebration of my progress and my journey since then.

To turn that frustration into gratitude. To keep doing my best. And to not despise the day of small beginnings.