1. An old, discarded, or rejected item or substance for use in reprocessing or as raw material, as old metal that can be melted and reworked.
Scrap sounds like a curse word to me. One of those words that pretty much means to throw away something that had plenty of potential. It feels like something that the grandparents of the 1800s would shake fingers at and say that the world was coming to and end.
When I eat at a friend’s house, I feel bad if I leave any bits of food on the plate. Of course, if any of the food was touching there will be a thin line left. But I still feel bad. It makes me feel ungrateful and I feel like I need to assure them that it was actually good.
I despise leaving books unfinished. I force myself to read a single book at a time, and I will fight my way through it no matter how bad it actually is. Someone spent an incredible amount of time, effort, and pure stress on that and I might as well have signed a contract stating that I would finish it. I never regret finishing them either, it means I really tried to appreciate the work they put into the piece.
I’m the same way with my writing. I’m a slow writer, sadly. I’d love to be like Robert Patterson or Stephen King in the bookstore I work at. They each take up an entire shelf. But I’m a slow writer, so that won’t happen for quite a long time. Because I’m so slow at it though, I tend to get bored with the stories. I end up with all kinds of new ideas and am afraid of starting them in case I loose the fire for the one I’m actively working on.
Sometimes though, the fire completely disappears for a story anyway. The one I’m working on now is like that. I love the plot, it’s sweet and very individual. I actually think it has a chance. The problem is, I feel bored when writing it. I’ve been working on it for so long it’s become boring. I sometimes don’t even write enough that I spend a week and a half writing one scene – it’s no wonder it went stale.
I’ve been debating on putting it on the back burner for a while, essentially scrapping it. So I don’t spend forever writing a book that my mind wasn’t in to. That my writing style decreased on because I didn’t want to do it.
Every time I think of doing this though, I feel like I failed. Not only myself, but my friends who keep hounding me to let them read it, my boyfriend because I’m not getting my future on the right path, and my family because I’ve tried so hard to prove that I could do it, only to be set back at square one.
Those aren’t the worst ones though. Those are doable. After all, the people don’t even know I’ve been trying so hard to do these in a timely fashion for their approval. I have this approval regardless.
The most painful thing I see in my head are the faces of the characters. They are sad, lost, and being pushed into a dark basement while my back is turned to them. This is the place they will stay indefinitely. It’s not a happy basement. No food, no water. Just darkness and the inability to escape.
It makes me so glad I don’t have the power to make whatever I write come to life… Imagine all the lives I would destroy! All the people shoved in my nonexistent basement.
I think this is why I wanted to write every day so badly. So that maybe I could get a book completed in a way I was happy with before it went stale.
What do you think? Should I just scrap it for now and write like a maniac on something I currently enjoy writing, or stick with this story even though I’ve lost the excitement over it?