Ah, the bittersweet tale of giving up on a project that stood on the precipice of completion—a storage shed that was a little more than a glorified pile of lumber. Picture this: you’re nestled comfortably in your workshop, surrounded by wood shavings, tools, and the echoes of your own musings. You have a glimmer of inspiration—a remarkable vision, perhaps an ingenious design for a handcrafted coffee holder that doubles as a tiny birdhouse. Yet, as the sun streams through the window and illuminates the undeniable flaws in your plan, you are confronted with a choice: to refine or to scrap.
Let’s be honest; there’s a certain charm in letting go of a half-baked concept. It’s like pruning a tree; sometimes, you must sever a branch to foster growth. In that moment of clarity, when you realise your idea is as useful as a screen door on a submarine, you must summon the courage to wade through the unsettling waters of relinquishment. Sure, it stings a little, but as any true craftsman knows, each discarded idea is not a failure but rather a stepping stone toward brilliance.
Years ago, I was a visual artist - a painter. I had studied at art college and university for 5 years. Sculpture was my chosen medium. But after leaving, it became clear that the sort of sculpture I engaged in, life-size clay modelling, was unworkable in a rented room of a terraced house we shared with the landlord. So, I taught myself to paint, in oils originally, ‘cause isn’t that what all great painters use?! It was a shocking mess. Eventually, I became proficient enough in acrylics to have exhibitions and sell some stuff.
Then one day, a thing happened. I had painted a set of four tall portraits of historical women – Cassandra and Helen of Troy were two of them. They were pretty fucking good I thought. Someone wanted to buy one, but I refused as they came as a set. Then a friend came and looked at them. Now she’s not unkind, this friend, she’s perceptive, intelligent and married to an accomplished musician, so understands a bit about creativity. She asked me, amongst other things, “What are they for? What’s the point?” Or words of that ilk. She agreed they looked great and there was obvious skill – but without meaning, they were…well, meaningless. It gave me pause for thought.
A long pause, as it turned out. I didn’t paint for about two years after. I dabbled in drawing and sketching still, but what was I painting for? Because I couldn’t say what I wanted to say in words, was one reason. Still not enough. I did return to painting, this time it was less ‘finished’, less impressive, more narrative, figurative, and simple. This was my voice. Time passed. Space was limited. I dipped in and out of writing. Then one day I attended a writing workshop run by Sam Stone. I won a competition and the rest, as they say, is history.
Now I am at that point again with my writing. I recently spoke with my better half about a story I had written, a complete YA novel. I invested more than a year writing it, then put it away for two. Returned to it. Mulled it over in my mind. Redrafted it. And now? He said it wasn’t my best idea. It has been done a thousand times before. What is the point? Ah, that spiky question again. What indeed was I trying to accomplish?
In the realm of craftsmanship, there comes a time in every artisan's journey when the hammers fall silent, the chisels rest, and the wood waits patiently for a revival that may never come. This is not defeat; rather, it’s an exquisite pause—a moment to reflect. We live in a world that clamours for constant output, yet sometimes the most profound statement is made in the absence of sound or action.
Stopping the act of creation isn’t a sign of surrender. I don’t believe in ‘writer’s block’. It’s an invitation to commune with ourselves and our work, to observe and find the truth of our latest project. It does not matter if you write to entertain, make money, or empower others – there are innumerable reasons to create. But when sending the piece out into the big wide world, you gotta be honest about what you did, why you did it, and what you expect from it. There is a certain magic that emerges in the pause —
Eventually, with a heavy heart but an oddly serene acceptance, I set down my tools and let go of the vision. I realise that sometimes, even the most noble pursuits can become burdensome, shackling us to expectations that may have been misplaced. I have not bettered my writing career with an exceptional tale of ‘them-and-us’, but have been left with an important lesson tucked away: it’s not just about the destination, but the journey—and sometimes, that journey means recognising when to pivot and let life take the reins.
I will not be continuing with the tale of Skypea and the Tyger. I have spent such a long time with the two characters, that I am loath to simply shove them in a metaphorical drawer. I can’t forget their faces, their pain, their journey. But — and here’s the point — it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t a good enough idea. I respect my husband’s opinion on all things creative. He’s an artist too, dedicated, thorough, and honest enough to dispose of work he knows isn’t working. Skypea and the Tyger isn’t working. Maybe they’ll crop up somewhere else. But for now, it’s over.
I suggest we embrace these halting moments as opportunities to recharge, to refill our creative wells, and to appreciate the art that already exists around us—the chirping of birds, the rustle of leaves, and the gentle hum of life that thrums beneath our busy existence. And when we finally do return to our crafts, armed with new inspiration and a heart full of gratitude, we’ll create not merely with our hands and hearts, but with an enriched spirit that speaks volumes beyond what mere words could convey. So, take a breath, step back, and let the world wash over you before diving once more into the sweet abyss of creation.
In the grand theatre of life, there comes a time when one must face the bittersweet truth: sometimes, you’ve got to torch the whole infernal thing and start fresh. Picture it, if you will: you’ve poured countless hours into a project, nurturing it like a beloved bonsai tree, only to discover it's more of an overgrown weed than a masterpiece. The yearnings of your soul plead for you to stick with it, but deep in your chest, that wise, gruff voice whispers, “Let it go.” Scrapping a project isn't an act of failure; it's the lumberjack's call to clear-cut a section of forest to make room for a new grove, brimming with possibility and fresh inspiration.
Please don’t confuse this with a fit of pique or a hasty retreat. This is a decidedly rugged decision, one steeped in introspection and a hefty serving of practicality. Take a long gaze at your creation; does it still speak to you? If it no longer sends a ripple of joy through your veins, toss it in the woodchipper and gather the scraps for a new bonfire. Burning your past efforts may feel like a loss, but, akin to the resilient Phoenix, they are the ashes that can fertilise the ground of your next big idea. Embrace the catharsis of destruction, and with each gust of flame, find solace in the promise of new beginnings and the sweet, intoxicating aroma of limitless potential. Because in the end, it’s not about the project itself, but the journey.
So, when the fire in your belly refuses to simmer and your spirit cries for one more round, take a moment to assess the landscape. Will that last cut lead to harmony or chaos? Embrace the quiet, and in that stillness, let the wisdom you’ve gathered guide you. Just as a grand tree knows when to shed its leaves, we too must learn the beauty of letting go. Calling a halt is not about giving up; it’s about nurturing the growth that comes with patience and maturity, ensuring that when we return, we do so with renewed vigour and clarity.
It takes bravery to do scrap stuff but you have never been short of that