This was a really fucking weird week. My rant on memoir, here on this very blog last week, got a lot of positive attention. It was lovely. Except I had a detractor. That was not lovely. And I can take a single drop of not-lovely and let it poison the whole water supply. If you’re a writer, you know what I’m talking about. But that’s ancient history.

It’s also ancient history that I’ve been writing a memoir—the memoir I’m working on in the Mark program—for the past six years. Six years. If I were an elephant I would have had three babies by now. Three tiny elephants. Wouldn’t you rather have three adorable elephants than another memoir about growing up with a crazy mother? I would.

Here’s the thing I want to talk about: letting go of what’s not working, even when it’s perfectly adequate. And I’m talking about writing, but first I need to tell you this:

Once upon a time, I had a perfectly nice boyfriend. He was kind and generous and he really loved me. We were together, not once but twice, for a total of about four years. When I broke up with him the second time, I agonized over the reasons behind it. What was wrong with me? I had a sweet man who loved me and I really loved him. But something was missing. The spark just wasn’t there. It was more about the aggregate of our life together than any one specific day. Each day (save the occasional tempest) was fine. When I put them all together, it wasn’t enough. And leaving that situation was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. It’s easy to abandon something that isn’t working, but the strength to discard something that’s good—but not great—is entirely different.

And I’m telling you that little snippet from my past because it’s relevant to the work I’m doing right now in the Mark program, relevant to this memoir I’ve been writing (and not writing) for the past six years. There’s something about what I bring to the page that absolutely works in five-page vignettes that will not sustain a longer work. And it’s agonizing.

My assignment for the past month has been to rewrite the first fifty pages of my book. My fellow Marks and I were all a little wobbly on the first go-round. But this past weekend, they knocked it out of the fucking park. They tore their fucking houses down and danced on the rubble. I repainted the eaves and put some new perennials in the flowerbeds.

Here’s a better analogy: They served up a new five-course meal. I pushed the same cold spaghetti around on a greasy plate. I started writing back in 2006. I was fortunate along the way to receive accolades, little pieces of food that sustained me as I wandered in the desert. I wouldn’t have had it any other way. If I hadn’t had those infusions, I would have starved. But now I have a collection of those tiny, delicious tidbits that just aren’t making a fucking meal.

The Writer Whisperer has the solution. He wants me to uncover, discover, discard. It’s advice we can all use, about our manuscripts, about our lives. Leave that pile of tapas behind in favor of a banquet. Yet, I’m clinging to my scraps like they’re the last meal I’m going to have on my way to the electric chair.

I’m choosing analogy and metaphor to not say the big, scary thing. I need to step away from the perfectly fine situation I’m in, in order to make room for something better. I’m clinging to what I have, but I want something bigger. Holy fucking shit. I feel like someone’s about to push me off a cliff.

Do you know what I mean? Have you ever left something good behind in the search for something better? Do tell.