I used to have a stash of writings that I kept in my closet. I referred to it as “The Warehouse,” because some clever guy in my undergrad creative writing class wrote a meta fiction piece about his warehouse. Basically, he was going through old ideas and writings to pull ideas, like you’d go into a warehouse to find parts.
My warehouse was overflowing with notebooks and binders. I had lugged some of those pieces from my parents house to my first place. Then, to Chris’s house when I moved in with him. And back in May, I started to load them in a box again to move them with me to the swingin’ bachelorette pad.
The stash had grown significantly. There were journals full of morning pages, notebooks of to do lists and outlines, planners that showed everything I had done that day, and scraps and bits that didn’t really have a category.
So I looked at the box, overflowing from only half the contents of my writerly stash.
I hadn’t really pulled any ideas from it, not since undergrad, which ended 10 years ago.
Looking at the notebooks, I couldn’t easily say what each one contained. There was no system for storing these. Basically, I finished a notebook and threw it on the shelf. There were countless dog-eared black Moleskines, some about half my age.
And I hadn’t even looked at them since I tossed them on the shelf.
But I had lugged them to new locations.
If I remembered correctly, there was some insanely cringe-inducing things in there. Like the story where I pinched a huge plot point from Dorothy Gilman’s Maze in the Heart of the Castle, but somehow made it about pro wrestling. Or any of my poetry, that was basically like the lovechild of e.e. cummings and The Bouncing Souls. Or just any emotions that were journaled between the ages of 12 and 25. Those were some dark-ass days, y’all.
I felt like I had to pack these up, like I had to keep lugging them, like I had this cross to bear just because I was a writer.
But then I had an even better thought.
What if I just threw them away?But then I had an even better thought. What if I just threw them away? Click To Tweet
And so I did. I got a big ol’ trash bag and loaded it up with everything that was the writer I used to be. I didn’t think twice. I just did it and tossed it in the big green city-issued dumpster.
It feels oddly freeing, especially since you’d think getting rid of your hoarded ideas would make you feel very sad — like losing the last 45 minutes of work in your Word Document when you think it’s autosaving but it’s not.
But instead, I feel like I’m finally free to be the writer I want to be. Which is weird, because a shelf of notebooks in your closet shouldn’t really dictate who you are, but it kind of does. It’s like being shackled to stories you don’t want to tell anymore.
And now I’m not tied down.
Obviously, this is not for everyone. But maybe let me leave you with this thought that really jolted me into making this decision.
“If I were to die, who would have to clean up this pile of notebooks, and would they read them?”
I knew that it would be my parents, and the answer would most assuredly be yes. (Also, I think they’d pack them up and keep them forever, even though those notebooks were garbage.)
I knew I didn’t want that. So, I threw them away.
And I’m only posting this here because I want to leave my writerly friends with this question. Are you holding onto ideas or the writer you used to be at the expense of new ideas or the writer you going to become?If I were to die, who would have to clean up this pile of notebooks, and would they read them? Click To Tweet
If so, may I recommend taking a trash bag to your warehouse?