I don’t recall how many years ago, but I remember it being dark in the warehouse, about 2 in the morning, and we were sitting around a fire we’d built in a old iron drum. Three of us, all writers, all having decided we need a fresh start, sat around this fire in this old warehouse, with half the windows knocked out and a cold breeze blowing through, huddled in our jackets and drinking can after can of cheap beer.
We fed the flames with manuscript pages.
One page after another. Original pages. No backup copies anywhere.
Everything that came before tied us down. It was all part of that million words of crap anyway. Page by page I got rid of stacks of typed notes, crappy horrid stories, and at least two novel manuscripts. Good ideas, maybe, but horrendous writing.
Do I ever regret doing that? No.
The fresh start it gave my writing was worth burning all that work.