Let it burn

Does the W in WIP stand for Work or for Writing? I guess, as a writer, I've always thought it was for Writing. Maybe my mind just balked at calling it Work. Either way, acronyms are like that. Most of the time, people who use them don't even really know what they stand for anymore. Apparently, according to a quick internet search, it could be World Institute of Pain. Hmm. At times that could fit for a writer too.

For most of this year though, all I know is my W has not been for writing. Oh there have been flares of story, but they would quickly burn themselves out, as a fire will do if the fuel is only papers and kindling. I should know, because I have been doing a lot of burning. Really, that's what I've been doing while the fire for story flickered, but did not take hold.

Back on a warm for February northern Minnesota day, I began to burn what amounted to 20 to 30 years of accumulated paper. Old drafts of writing, old bank statements, old scraps of everything I once thought, for one long forgotten reason or another, too important to throw away. Whether it were laziness or sentiment that kept me holding on to all these bits and pieces is up for debate. A little of both, no doubt, went into each decision of non-action. A little voice must have whispered to me, saying I might need this one day. 

That's not to say, over the years, the task of sorting hadn't been attempted. But it was too much, an undertaking that grew more formidable with time. These things, once collected piece by piece at the urging of a whisper, were now fiercely protected  from disturbance, as if guarded by a lion. Even a move to a new home would not unduly disturb this collection. These things, packed in vaguely labeled boxes, would accompany me and be hidden away, out of sight in drawers and cabinets and closets, attic and basement space too. Other things joined the boxes of paper, including clothing in sizes I deluded myself into thinking I would ever get back into.  And then came larger items of old electronics. These items held no sentimental attachment, so this part was just the hassle to arrange for their removal. But it all fit in spaces out of sight, most of the time, out of mind. Oh, occasionally I would have twinges of a guilty conscience and moments of premonition. What if someone else, be it family or strangers, had to clean out my house? I would cringe at the thought. 

Cringe, yes, but the call to action would fade. Of course it would. I had other things to do. Other things I wanted to do so much more than this. Writing, yes. But really anything currently setting a fire in my soul took preference to looking back. Maybe I felt like if I looked back I wouldn't like what I found. Not just in old journals, old letters. If only that were all. But I kind of knew even a receipt or a sample of paint color would have a purpose behind it. A reminder that, at one point in time, this was the project setting a fire in my soul. Did I succeed or fail? It was all there, in mementos unintentionally kept.

Were those things important, after all, to have kept? To continue to keep? Just thinking of how much time it would take to make that decision made me cringe! And there you had it. One cringe can outweigh another!

But somehow, finally, I felt the need to purge. Moreover, I felt the need to light a fire. Does the credit go to my lack of ambition for writing? We have all been there and experienced the moments when the most mundane tasks are preferable to writing. This might apply here, if not for the fact my task was not mundane. It was personal to go through all these pieces of my psyche I hid out of sight. 

So, you may wonder, why now? Of course, I needed an inciting incident or this purging was never going to be done. What got me going was at least two-fold; an impending house renovation and an impending empty nest. This was a start. It at least lit a fire. (Note to self, sometimes an external conflict gets things moving more than internal conflict! Or sometimes we need both.)

In the midst of this purging loomed uncertainty. This is not an unusual state of affairs. There has always been uncertainty in one form or another as to the permanence of my current status quo. (That's another story!) But of course those anxieties played into this. Was I being rash? Would I regret this? Those questions were probably what I thought I'd be thinking about the most as I watched the flames. But of course, by then, I'd already asked and answered those questions. The burning wasn't hard. 

Yes, it did take time. As it so happened, with circumstances as they are in the world right now, I had the time. I too am working from home, but I'm not sure that really mattered -- it never really was about having the time. I'm still not done with the burning (it's restricted at the moment), but the sorting is done. The large items hauled away. And no, I did not throw away or destroy everything.

How did I know what to keep? In hindsight, my test seems simple. It came down to asking if it was something "useful for the future." This definition, of course, is highly personal and I would never be able to define it for another person's purge. But for me it was about keeping "fuel" for the future. All that means, I suppose is asking would it make me happy? That criteria broadly covered a lot of sentimental things like my son's school drawings or even my own high school poetry. Not bad, if I do say so myself. Or even a project from the 11th grade on "The History of Furniture." (I'm always collecting for a new edition of the HRC!) Oddly, my test did not cover a lot of early writing and even personal journals and letters. I reread everything, remembered much more than the words told, and said my goodbye. I wish that girl would have written more poetry.

But that sounds too much like a regret. No regrets. I have empty spaces! Well, almost. The last step in my sorting is to have a yard sale of all the things someone else might find "useful for the future." Only social distancing was not a thing while I was sorting out my mess. I think I have to wait. I may also have to wait for the house renovation. This is also on hold, but I am certainly not putting things back in those empty spaces! 

So, like many people feel these days, there is a sense of limbo. Some things are on hold and yet some are not. As my son found out, some things will not wait for you. Remote learning made it hard for my son to finish his senior year of high school and I wondered how I could light a fire in him. Or under him as a way to get him out of bed! (Tempting, but I did not.) Somehow, we pushed through. Next week, in the school parking lot, he will get his diploma and there will be a parade through town. And in the fall, he will go to college. So far, the college is saying it will be on campus. We didn't get a chance to visit so that doesn't seem real either but it will happen.

Yes, it helps to set fires. Fight fire with fire? Sounds logical to me. Or, as another way of thinking of it, use a distraction to fight a pervasive state of distraction. And who isn't distracted right now? Distraction, by the way, is #5 on this list of the 5 Reason You're Experiencing Writer's Block by Susan Reynolds in a guest post on Jane Friedman's blog.

 Instead of feeling like a failed writer, be patient and kind toward your writing self until the situation changes. The less you fret and put a negative spin on it, the more small pockets of time might open up. And, since you have been wise in keeping your writing brain primed, you may find it easier to write than you imagined.

This is good to hear. It also tells me I shouldn't be so hard on myself if my story fire flickers out. At least it was there, for a small pocket of time. But I still say fighting fire with fire is good too