I began writing in middle school. By high school I had finished my first batch of short stories. Some were perverse, others dull. One starred Urine as a central character (yes, the bodily fluid). Looking back, my prose was forced, lacking color; my themes were difficult to follow; my stories were glaringly unlikely with plot-holes big enough to fly a jet through; my characters were uni-dimensional, stereotypical cardboard cut-outs. Despite these searing truths, I saved some of that adolescent mess. I even posted one of those early stories on my web-site.
Guess what? That story, born of hormonally driven adolescent angst and titled Johnny vs. Johnny, has somehow become the most viewed item on my author web-site.
Is my writing as a 15 year old more interesting than my writing now?
That's a frightening question. The answer is probably even more frightening.