My hands are itching... again.

I used to write. I also used to get bored a lot.

Now I’m having the irresistible urge to write again. Work withstanding.

Back in college, and just around the time when internet at home became vogue and Edsamail™ was teething, a group of my friends begun a choose-your-own-adventure series that utilized contributions from each member of the mailing list. The background stories were personalized, with each member fashioning a central character to which individual storylines would revolve. Inspire of diverging themes, everyone agreed on a few basic ground rules that shaped reality in the common, albeit fictional, universe where our creations walk and fornicate, as though gods and goddesses from Olympus all picked up an Olympia and became writers all.

Those were the good days.

We all lived in a digital Greenwich Village, exchanging notes and reviews and critiques, also barbs when discussions get heated (as so often does because we were young, brash and ridiculous. On summer vacations, each day would begin by booting up the CPU and hooking up with Edsamail to download the latest story developments. Replies would be crafted or, if I wasn’t particularly creative, read and flamed (our term for “appraised”). Another check mail in the evening would yield the latest replies and the “fictional” atmosphere that would set the environment for tomorrow’s readings. Everyone would usually write their contributions in the night (or at least I did, for I felt most inspired before going to bed).

More on this thread next post.