It felt like that's how far back I was transported today when I opened the mail and found a copy of a small press magazine published in 1980 that contains one of my few published science fiction stories. A friend of mine came across it somewhere, thought I'd like to have it, and sent it to me. I'd have to go back and check the records, but it was probably something like the tenth or twelfth story I had published. I don't recall whether I got paid anything for it other than contributor's copies. And I can barely remember what the story is about. I'm sure if I sat down and read it, it would seem almost like reading someone else's work. I'm tempted to do just that. But somehow I'm a little leery. If it's really bad, I'll wince and be embarrassed. If it's better than what I'm writing now, I'll wince and be really embarrassed. Your basic no-win situation.
But it's nice to look at the story and remember the kid who wrote it.