It’s a good thing when you look back at old writing and shudder—isn’t it? At least I hope it is, because I’ve been given many opportunities to shudder lately.

More than thirty years ago, back when I was working at Marvel Comics, I created a character called the Scarecrow, who debuted in Dead of Night #11 (August 1975), continued his adventures in Marvel Spotlight #26 (February 1976), and then faded away as the horror explosion imploded, popping up only occasionally thereafter handled by other writers. I haven’t done any work for either Marvel or DC since the early ’80s.

Marvel has recently begun packaging some of my old stories as a minor part of its compilation volumes, and the latest of these is the hardcover book Legion of Monsters, which stars Morbius the Living Vampire, Werewolf by Night, Man-Thing and others on the cover, and relegates the Scarecrow only to the two tales inside. This is the fourth reprint volume I’ve been a part of lately, and they bring about mixed emotions.

As I reread these Scarecrow stories for the first time in years, I can remember my twenty-year-old self, and how thrilled I was to have gotten the chance to write them. I was giddy to be following in the footsteps of my idols, and wanted nothing more out of life than to be the next Stan Lee.

I saw no flaws in my scripts back then, but these days, I can’t review the work without wincing.

And as I wrote up top, that’s a good thing. Right? Because if I can look back on work done thirty years previously and be satisfied with it, doesn’t that mean I’ve failed to grow? Shouldn’t we always (well, better make that “frequently,” since I’m not an absolutist) be unsatisfied when we look back?

Which brings up yet another question. What am I doing now which will cause me to wince when I consider it from thirty further years down the road?

What current flaws lurk in my blindspot?