fire pit

For Father's Day last year I received a fire pit. If I look out the window of my office, where I do the majority of my writing, I can see it. Of late I've been wondering what it would like to print out everything I've written the last ten years, start a nice fire in the fire pit, and burn all of it. I won't do it, of course, but I wonder if the urge is unusual. 

Somewhere around 9th grade my sister gave me a biography of Sylvia Plath, whose Collected Poems I had recently read. The biography had a large impact on me--it was the first bio of a writer I'd read, and already at that age I was writing a lot and envisioned myself becoming a writer. The book alerted me to the dangers that path might take, and the ecstasies too. One of the images that stuck with me then and that has been with me ever since is Sylvia burning the draft of her second novel, which would have been about Ted, in the immediate aftermath of their marriage falling apart. What did that feel like? How deep was her anger and despair to take such a violent step, one that could not be undone? These are questions we'll never know the answer to. At least there must have been a sense of release in doing so and perhaps a feeling of energy coming from the flames. These days most of us would only need to hit a couple of keys to destroy our work. It doesn't strike me as very cathartic. 

It's not that I've suddenly decided I hate everything I've written. I'm just wondering if a sacrifice is needed. But I've never been one to bargain with The Muse, because like all goddesses in their dealings with mortals, The Muse will always win. So I guess those boxes of papers and my external drive of files is safe for now. The real problem is that even if I burned everything, I'd still wake up the next morning and feel compelled to write. Some things you just can't escape.