Letting Stories Go
A Difficult But Often Necessary Task
I often hear writers asking other writers things like, “How many rejections until you decide a piece isn’t worth pursuing anymore?” The implication is that there’s a rule for making this decision, some sort of guideline, and that it’s somehow based on numerical data. In my opinion (and experience), though, there’s not necessarily any correlation between rejection and the decision to let a story (or poem or novel or essay) go.
The decision has to come from you, the writer, and is more based on self-awareness and willingness than anything else.
Balloon Release
As a child, I remember doing balloon releases at school. We’d write our names, addresses, and/or phone numbers on a slip of paper and attach it to the balloon in hopes that after we let the balloon go, we’d learn where it ended up—the assumption being that whoever found the balloon would call or write a letter telling us where they found it. It’s strange to think about this now because of all the environmental implications. But I never thought of that as a kid (and apparently neither did our public school district!).
The image of a balloon release came to me when I was thinking of stories that I’ve let go, released. It’s a very different thing, of course, but can you imagine your stories as balloons that you just let go of at some point, words flying everywhere? If found, please call.
My Facebook memories reminded me today that two years ago, my story “The Start of a Bad Joke” was published in Jersey Devil Press. I was hesitant to click on the link, as I hadn’t read the story since its publication. Two years is a long time. Would I still like the story or would I be embarrassed by it?
(I reread the story, and still enjoyed it. Phew!)
There was a point last year when I had that same feeling of hesitancy upon deciding to reread the very first piece of fiction I ever had published (2016), a story called “Truffles,” published right at the beginning of my switch back to fiction after twenty years of focusing on poetry. And I felt a similar kind of relief after reading it. (Double phew!)
When I think about whether I should let a story go—by which I mean stop working on it, stop sending it out—this is precisely what I think about: Will I still like the story in two years? Eight years? I want to be able to reread my old stories and still find them worthy of publication. Would I write the same story now? Maybe not. Would I make changes? Maybe. But can I read it without cringing?! I want this answer to be yes.
Story Release
Yesterday I received an expected rejection of three micros. They’d been out for submission for over six months, and the stories had, more or less, been quick, last-minute things, submitted simply because I didn’t know what else to do with them. After receiving the rejection, I reread the micros and felt only apathy for the pieces. They aren’t bad, but I feel no attachment to them—they don’t excite me. Frankly, I was relieved that they were rejected.
But my next immediate response was to work on them some more, send them somewhere else. I had to stop myself. I don’t have to do anything with them.
I decided to let them go, release them. If found, please call. (Or maybe don’t.)
But letting go doesn’t have to mean deleting or trashing. It might just mean putting a story aside for an indefinite amount of time. The three rejected micros are still files on my computer—they aren’t gone forever. I can return to them anytime. But the point is that I don’t have to return to them. I’ve let them go.
Sometimes stories (or poems or novels or essays) just don’t work, yet I think it’s human nature to want to save them. I can fix this! It’s human nature to think, hey, I’ve invested all this time on X, Y, or Z, so I need to keep at it, so that the time I’ve spent is not wasted.
Psst…It’s Not Wasted Time!
Letting a story (or poem or novel or essay) go is never wasted time. It’s practice. It’s part of the art of creative writing. It’s part of improving as a writer. It’s like anything we try to get better at. We invest time, we make mistakes, we try again.
I keep old drafts and old stories and will reread or refer to this “released” work periodically. (Rereading some of my stories from junior high and high school can be a hoot!) Sometimes I find a line or paragraph or even idea I like, and use it for something else.
But not everything I write has to be published. Not everything I write should be published!
Benefits of Letting Go
I know that it’s time to release a story or project when I start to lose my momentum and interest in it—when working on it starts to feel like a chore. I must make this work. I can do it. I can do it. When it gets to that point, I have to tap into my inner self and take a step back: Why must I make it work?
Sometimes it’s a matter of taking enough of a step back to give myself perspective on a piece of writing (and this can, in some cases, take years). Or re-envisioning a piece (which is often how I think of revision). But either way, I’ve found that the practice of letting go has several benefits:
It helps you learn to “kill your darlings.” So-called “darlings” in writing are words/lines/paragraphs, ideas, structures/forms, or characters that a writer loves and holds tight to, even to the detriment of the work. I’ve learned to “rehome” (set aside somewhere) my darlings; that way it doesn’t feel like I’m getting rid of them altogether. Releasing a story can be the same.
It helps you gain perspective/objectiveness about your writing. When you’re astute and/or insightful enough to realize that something isn’t working, isn’t giving you pleasure, or isn’t providing you with any other intended effect, you grow as a writer.
It helps you, in general, improve as a writer (in part for the above-noted reasons). When you get stuck in tunnel vision—I must fix this, I must keep at this, I must finish this—you often end up blocking out useful advice or helpful feedback. In my twenty years of leading writing groups and workshops, I’ve seen this oodles of times (and have fallen prey to it myself). Learning the craft of creative writing requires an open mind and curiosity. It’s not a rule-bound process but a fluid one.
It can be difficult to let a piece go, especially a piece you’ve invested so much time and effort into. But to keep improving as a writer, sometimes it’s necessary.
Your call to action: Go and release the (figurative) balloons! YOU decide whether you want to attach your name, address, or phone number to them.
Nothing is lost, nothing is wasted! I can't tell you how many times I've used a line, an image, or a character from discarded drafts or never-finished stories, even many years later.
The same thing applies to not only writing but things in our life.