This is the second time I’ve trashed every post I ever wrote on this blog and started over from scratch.
I can’t really tell you why I do it. Part of me just likes the appeal of a blank slate. I often do this with drafts; I stop and start a few times, and if I’m not in love with what I’ve written, I feel no qualms about hitting delete on whole sentences, paragraphs, Word documents. I decimate them all without mercy, with only the merest pang at the thought of the minutes and hours spent producing them in the first place.
I think part of this is a fear of commitment.
No, not like THAT, I’m married, okay? Okay.
But when I’m in love with one of my own ideas, there is a real, palpable fear that what I’m committing to the page doesn’t do it justice. I’m currently working on a novel, and as far as I can remember, I’ve written about five versions of outlines for it and trashed about four different starts so far. I wasn’t in love, really, truly, overwhelmingly in love with any of them, and to my thinking, like any number of overwrought romance novels and TV sitcoms about finding yourself and The One in the big city: I can’t commit until I’m in love. I haven’t found The One yet.
When it comes to the blog, it’s the same idea. I liked my ideas, but what I ended up writing was just kinda “meh,” an underwhelming, sad squeak when you were expecting a real pants-ripper of a fart. I read them over and thought to myself, Self, you can do better than this.
And so I can. And so I will.
There’s always the ‘Delete’ button, after all.