The Books I Had to Burn: Why I Scrapped a Novel to Save My Writing Life

Between you and me, I had to lose the plot to find my way back

This post is between you and me — raw, intimate, and not something I’d share widely. It’s about the book I almost finished during the pandemic, and the quiet, complicated truth of why I walked away. No neat endings here — just the messy middle, the heartbreak of almost bringing something to fruition but not quite, and the strange kind of freedom that sometimes comes from giving up.

If that sounds like something you want to read, I’d love to share it with you.

March 2020. Can you remember it? The month everything changed.

I flew to Reykjavík early that month for a short holiday. There was a virus in China — creeping closer, sure, but I wasn’t unduly worried. While I was out there, the Icelandic government began enforcing social distancing. A few days later, I flew back into the first lockdown.

I didn’t have it bad, not compared to many. My work was unaffected, and at the time I was living in a fairly sizeable house with a huge garden. And, though I was alone, that has never been something I particularly minded (although, as I’d quickly come to learn, while choosing solitude is one thing, having it forced upon you is quite another).

I was lucky, then. But also (and I didn’t realise it at the time — do we ever?) I was in a very strange headspace.