The work had been sitting for two years on a hard drive.

When I went and looked at it all again? None of it was really good.

I wrote what I knew. Ninety-thousand (90,000) words of it.

Originally, I didn't publish it because I was afraid of a bully, of all things. A bully! Because of that bully, I was convinced during that time of my life, that I would never be able to publish it.

I've always regretted not finishing that process.

Should bullies just be able to intimidate you into not sharing your gifts and talents?

Logic dictates that NO, no, they should not. Does that mean that bullies don't periodically succeed, even as adults? Nope. They do, but they shouldn't.

As a writer, nothing you write should go to waste. My 90,000, words were no exception. At the time, there was no getting around it in the personal situation I was in.

I was not able to publish my work under my name.

Could it be resurrected?

Two more years passed.

I read through it again, while reviewing other old material I had stashed away. My honest opinion of it was that, although it was helpful information, it read really dry – like scratchy cardboard.

The material should be used, published, and available to help those it might help, but I highly doubted it would have sold for more than .10 a copy in any worldly jurisdiction.

In a weekend fit of righteous, "So there— take that Mr. Bully!" I chopped the majority of it into tiny blog-size pieces.

Post after post, I published the majority of it under another name, on a random free blog platform I no longer have the password to. This would:

  • publish the content, so I could intrinsically say it was published, and
  • not the let the material go to waste, benefiting, anyone searching on that particular topic.

Letting your work go is a process.

After publishing it under a no-name listing, not in my own name, I felt like the work had been "released." Maybe it was for the best. Maybe it's what I needed.

Not publishing it felt like I was being forced to hold in certain bodily functions. It was stifling, uncomfortable, and horribly distracting.

Seeing it back then vs. that way now, proves to me there's been growth, both in long held skill and in maturity.

I can let my older creations go without holding onto the guilt, feeling like it was "wasted" somehow.

But it wasn't wasted. None of it was.

  • I learned how to write a novel.
  • I learned how to cut it down and make individual posts out of it.
  • I wrote about on one topic that I knew in depth.
  • I learned to appreciate the discipline and managing the work.
  • I finished writing the behemoth of a project.
  • The satisfaction of finishing it that part was complete.

I thought I had to make something more out of it, but I didn't. Isn't that what you're supposed to do when you write 90,000, words?

I thought the content could be repurposed infinitely, but it can't. What that means now, is that I also have now to focus on future work. Better work. Better creations.

The bully never in actuality won. What the devil meant for evil, God will use for good.

The mechanics of the work stands on its own and can at least be found by others – eventually. I learned. I grew.

And I won't be so afraid in the future.