I wrote 5,000 words in six days. And on the seventh day, I tossed them in the bin.
My first thought? What a waste. But is anything really wasted in the process of writing and rewriting? Or even in the context of life?
So now I’m in the middle of writing another 5,000 words to replace the ones I scrapped. At the moment, I have no way of finding out whether or not they will meet the same end as their predecessors, but I am writing them anyway. Because if I hadn’t written the first 5,000 words, I wouldn’t have realized they were horrible. If I hadn’t realized they were horrible, I wouldn’t have binned them. If I hadn’t binned them, I wouldn’t have been able to write something better in their place. And so on, and so forth.
It’s like climbing up a ladder. You don’t take just the first step and then make a leap to the top, you have to go through every rung to get to the end. In the context of life itself, you’re not born one day and spew out a novel the next.
These things take time.
Unfortunately, those four words have now grown to be quite repellent — but only to those who don’t want the goal badly enough.