Letting Go
By Victoria Fortune
I wouldn’t call myself a hoarder--pack rat is a preferable description--but I’ll admit I have trouble letting go, whether it’s items I no longer have a use for, or scenes and characters that don’t serve a purpose in my work in progress. When I’m revising and need to cut “my darlings,” I dump them in a folder with the hope that I can find a use for them elsewhere. Possessions take up a lot more space, but I hate to waste and have trouble throwing away perfectly good things that could be of use to somebody.
In our former house, we had a spacious attic and a barn out back, making it relatively easy to store things, offering little incentive to purge. But when we decided to move, I paid the price. Packing up the house was such an ordeal that I did not have the time or energy to hold a yard sale. I gave away what I could and sold some things on Craigslist, but I ended up packing quite a few boxes labeled “Yard Sale” and, absurdly, paying to have them moved to our new (much smaller) house, with the intention of having one once we were settled in.
Four years later, those boxes were still cluttering up the attic, weighing on my mind. So, this year, just as I’ve been determined to cut the clutter from my manuscript and find my focus, I was determined to rid the house of excess stuff. I began sifting and sorting through boxes, clearing out closets and drawers, determined to finally hold the damn yard sale, looking forward to it much as I do a painful but much-needed round of revision.
My children were surprisingly nonchalant about getting rid of formerly beloved items. They had dollar signs in mind as they tossed once-precious dolls, stuffed animals, games, Legos and books into the sell pile. Each item conjured a vivid image of them at various stages of growth, creating an effect akin to a near-death experience—their childhoods flashing before my eyes. If I could slash away at my manuscript with such ruthlessness, maybe I would be done by now.
I kept reminding myself that memories exist apart from material things, that it would be a relief to have the weight of all this stuff lifted from my shoulders. But the fact is, the items that were boxed away in the attic for so long brought to mind memories I wouldn’t have thought of otherwise. Like specific details in a well-wrought story, they evoked the mood and feeling of particular moments in our lives. Getting rid of them was as wrenching as killing my darlings.
I watched as people picked and poked through our past: two women debated whether one of my daughter’s favorite ballet recital costumes was worth $2; a father and his two sons dug like badgers through many years (not to mention dollars) of investment in my son’s Lego collection and carted off the bulk of it in ten minutes flat. I was mostly elated to see the mountain of stuffed animals—enough to insulate a small house—slowly disappear. Few had any sentimental value. But when one woman looked past the cheap, carnival-game booty and selected Angelina Ballerina—a mouse with moveable arms and legs and a satin and tulle tutu that my daughter had taken to bed every night for a year--and informed me as she paid that it was going to make a great chew-toy for her dog, I nearly snatched it out of her hands.
It reminded me of the bittersweet feeling that comes with sending out a piece of writing I’ve poured myself into: the satisfaction of finishing it mingling with the fear that once I let it go, I have no control over what readers will make of it. Better to send it out, however, than to keep it tucked away where it is no good to me or anyone else.
One of the benefits of being a writer is the ability to draw on life’s more challenging moments and render meaning out of them. It’s a stretch to suggest that a yard sale is a major life challenge, but for me—someone who has trouble letting go—sorting through and putting a price tag on nearly 20 years’ worth of family possessions was a trying endeavor. Not quite as lengthy or exacting an endeavor as rendering the characters, scenes and ideas in my head into the novel I envision, but trying nonetheless. Both require the ability to determine what is essential to keep and what to get rid of.
The Yard Sale did have its benefits: I feel relieved and rejuvenated with less clutter around. We unearthed so many good memories and created new ones sorting through the things we sold. We didn’t make much money, but that’s not the point of a yard sale, just as it isn’t the point of much of the writing I do. We kept a lot of useable things out of a landfill--things that will hopefully provide enjoyment and generate fond memories for others. The sale also inspired a piece of flash fiction and this blog post, which I hope will serve as a reminder to me in the future that there’s a lot to be gained from letting go.
