This had led me to believe that A) I am much, much, much too prolific, and B) Good lord, some of this stuff sucks! I have seen things unfit for mortal eyes. Every sin an artist can commit 'pon the innocent page, in places, has been committed.
There's a reason I stay out of those old folders.
But at the same time, I do occasionally get a flash of "Hey! Hello, old friend! I'd forgotten about you!" And that's nice. Even paintings that are hopelessly and agonizingly flawed--sometimes there's a moment or two in there. And there's a few unfinished paintings that I will probably never finish now, but which I go "Hey! That coulda been cool!"
Some day, I will die, and Satan* will lead me, cringing, through that enormous art gallery in hell that contains every scrap and every doodle I have made, from the cradle to the grave. And like all artists, the gallery will not be big enough, or long enough, or good enough. There's no getting around that bit.
But at least that bastard's feet'll ache by the time we get to the end of mine.
*Possibly I'll have been good, and it'll be Ganesh, at an enormous gallery gala with little rats roaming around in tuxedos, carrying plates of cocktail weenies and cheese. But now I'm muddling my pantheons badly, which is probably a sin, too...