Ghost in the Machine

We’ve all been there. You open your dashboard, eyes scanning past the "Published" tab, and land on that digital graveyard: The Drafts. For some, it’s a source of pride—a bustling workshop of ideas. For me? It’s usually a source of quiet, nagging guilt. It’s a collection of half-finished thoughts and abandoned characters staring back at me like neglected house plants.

​Recently, I decided to stop avoiding the ghosts. I went back into my Vocal drafts, not to write something new, but to witness the "me" from months, even years, ago. What I found wasn't just a mess of incomplete sentences; it was a revelation about the creative process that every writer needs to hear.

​The Archeology of an Idea

​My draft folder is ten pages deep. Ten pages of "Best Laid Plans."

​There are indices that started strong in January and sputtered out by March. There are random photos saved from Unsplash—images that once sparked a fire in my brain, now sitting in silence. But as I scrolled, I realized something: The spark hadn't died; it had just been hibernating.

​I found a draft titled "The Odd Fellows." It was nothing more than a snapshot of three men at a traffic crossing. I remembered that moment—sitting in my car, watching this bizarre trio, wondering how their lives had ever intersected. I hadn’t written a plot; I’d just recorded a "prophetic vision" of their faces and clothes.

​Looking at it now, with fresh eyes and a few more miles on my own clock, the "germ" of the story felt more infectious than ever. I didn't feel the pressure to finish it right now, but I felt the thrill of knowing it was waiting for me.

​Reclaiming the "Anchor"

​Then, I struck gold. I found a piece called "Anchor." It was started for a challenge months—maybe a year—ago. I couldn’t even tell you what the original prompt was. As I began to read, I felt that familiar pang of writer’s guilt. Why did I leave this to languish? Why did I let this character sit in stasis?

​But as I read further, the guilt shifted into something else: Clarity.

​When we are in the heat of writing, we are often too close to the flame. We can’t see the smudge on the lens because we are the lens. Re-reading "Anchor" after a year of distance was like visiting an old friend. I could see the dialogue more clearly. I could see where I’d been wordy and where I’d been vague.

​I started tweaking. A comma here, a stronger verb there. I wasn't just "fixing" it; I was honing it.

​The realization: That year of neglect wasn't a waste of time. It was "mulling time." The story hadn't just sat there; it had matured in the back of my subconscious.

​The Beauty in the "Whittling"

​There is a certain pretension in comparing a blog draft to a masterpiece, but in that moment, I felt like a sculptor. By removing the unnecessary bits that my younger self thought were "clever," I was letting the story emerge from the stone.

​The distance allowed me to be a better editor than I ever could have been in the moment of creation. I wasn’t attached to the sentences anymore; I was attached to the truth of the story.

​I’m itching to finish it now. Of course, life has other plans—I’m heading off on holiday tomorrow, and my "mantra" of having no time remains undefeated. But this time, the "Anchor" isn't a weight dragging me down with guilt. It’s a weight holding me steady.

​My Message to You: Don't Hit Delete

​If you have a folder full of "abandoned" drafts, stop apologizing for them.

​They are your creative savings account. On the days when the "new" ideas won't come, your past self has already done the heavy lifting for you.

​Distance is a superpower. The "you" of six months ago has a different perspective than the "you" of today. Use that gap to your advantage.

​Stasis isn't death. Just because a story isn't finished doesn't mean it isn't growing.

​I’m taking my notebook with me on holiday. I’m going to let "Anchor" sit in my mind while I watch the waves. I want to see where the story takes me—and eventually, I want to see where it takes you, too.

​So, go back. Open that draft you’re ashamed of. You might find that you’re a much better writer than you remembered—and your "old friend" is just waiting for a hello.

​What’s the oldest draft sitting in your dashboard right now? I’d love to hear about the "germ" of a story you’re afraid to go back to in the comments.