I wrote 30,000 words in October and intentionally deleted the whole thing

I wrote more than 30,000 words this month, which is by far the most I’ve ever written in a month. And an hour ago, I hit delete. Intentionally. Because what I wrote doesn’t matter and I don’t want it to. Because I wrote to be writing.

I write every day. I call it my Trash Notebook. Sometimes, Lauren, my wife, calls it my Hate Journal. She jokes that I fill it with everything that bothers me. She’s right, but it’s not a list of complaints, it’s more like problems I’m trying to solve and I write to work my way through to some kind of solution. It’s a lot of what should I do about this?

My writing is a lot of noticing and thinking and wondering.

I write fast, on my phone, without editing or stopping, all in a google doc (so I still have access without service). It took about two weeks to adjust to writing this way instead of in a notebook, but now I’m more than six weeks in and I’d probably have to adjust back to paper if I wanted to go back. I don’t think I’ll go back. The best way to keep doing anything is to use what you already have.

Learning to write on my phone means that writing is always accessible. And because it’s accessible, I’m writing more.

Writing more also means reading more. It helps that I now have a daily subway commute with my new job. Every writing book I’ve read tells writers to read. So I’m listening. Careful not to burn out on writing too much, I write on the train to work every morning, and read on the way home. This month, I’ve read a bunch of library books: Malcolm X, Everything Happens For A Reason, Malibu Rising, The Happy Ever After Playlist, and The Bright Hour. Reading makes me a better writer even if it just gives me something to always write about as I write my way through what’s going on in the book.

I write all day at work, too. But that’s my job. I was worried that having a writing job would kill my motivation to write (scarcity!) but the opposite has happened (abundance!).

In my October Trash, I considered the ideas of production, consumption, scarcity, publishing, and word counts. It wasn’t an easy decision about whether to delete it all. I wrote about it all month. I decided to delete because I don’t want to hold on. It’s too much to ever do anything with it. I’m never going to sit down and edit or find my way through it all, and even if I did have the time to read it all, I don’t want to. I intentionally write trash to warm up, to stay in the habit of regular writing, because I need it to think. But I don’t need to hold on to it. I can let it go and be free. So I did. I deleted September. I deleted October.

“Here is the poem I was going to write earlier, but didn’t because I heard you stirring,” from Raymond Carver, The Poem I Didn’t Write.

Some days I wrote what I saw or heard on the train. Some days I wrote about what I’m wondering. Lots of days I wrote from The Poem I Didn’t Write. Here is the poem I was going to write earlier, but didn’t because I’m on my way to work and there’s a little girl kicking a woman’s tote bag with her red rain boot. Here is the poem I was going to write earlier, but didn’t because I took the long way to the station this morning, the way with the view of the leaves changing and where I saw the dead pigeon. I didn’t write because everyone is watching me on the train, but when I look up I never see their faces. I didn’t write because I forgot to switch the laundry and need to walk the dog.  

Tomorrow, I begin again.