01 Aug 2026
This month, Ruth thinks about editing, and looks at what’s worth keeping…
I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time this month editing. Not manuscripts. Cupboards.
You know the kind of cleaning that no one ever notices or admires (although I was secretly hoping someone might pop over for a visit and gasp, “Ruth, look at the state of those immaculately organised kitchen drawers!”) It involved emptying cupboards, scrubbing skirting boards, sorting cables, wondering why I appear to own instruction manuals for appliances that I owned when I lived in Australia.
There is something vaguely embarrassing about the things we keep. I spent one whole afternoon on a shelf filled with “important things” like old keys to unknown locks and scribbled passwords to irrelevant online accounts. What possessed me to keep this torn old postcard with no writing on it? Why did this frayed woven bracelet warrant a place in my box of treasures?
It began, as these things often do, as an attempt to get my house in order.
Somewhere between descaling the kettle and uncovering six tweezers in my bathroom cupboard, however, it occurred to me that I wasn’t just trying to clean and tidy my home. I think I was actually attempting to create some more room in my own head.
When we’re younger, life is largely an exercise in collecting. We collect qualifications because we think they’ll open doors. We expand our circles because more friends surely must be better than fewer. We accumulate clothes for the versions of ourselves we intend to become one day. We say yes to every experience because life is for living and saying no must mean missing out, right?
But somewhere along the way comes a point where the question changes from ‘What else do I need?’ to ‘What no longer belongs?’
Writers know this instinct well. While doing my Masters in Creative Writing, one phrase came up so much it became infuriating: Kill your Darlings. To begin with, everything I wrote was packed full of every thought that came to my mind. It contained every clever sentence, every anecdote, every unnecessary detail that felt indispensable at the time. And then came the uncomfortable part. You start cutting things you really quite like. You remove beautiful things. You begin to realise that beautiful doesn’t mean necessary. The finished piece is rarely better because more was added. It’s always better because enough was taken away.
I’ve started to wonder whether life works much the same way.
When thinking about routines, obligations and expectations, I question whether I’m holding onto them because they still enrich my life or simply because they’ve been there for so long that I forgot they were ever a choice.
Even shopping has changed for me.
Last week, I bought a freezer.
Nobody has ever whispered enviously across a dinner table, “Have you seen Ruth’s freestanding under-counter freezer?” It isn’t beautiful. In fact, it is doing its absolute best to lower the aesthetic tone of my kitchen. But I adore it.
No, I haven’t just unexpectedly developed strong feelings about frozen peas, but I love how it makes my life easier. It lets me batch cook, waste less food, eat better when work is busy and look after the version of myself who arrives home exhausted on a Tuesday evening. There is something strangely satisfying about reaching an age where practicality begins to feel quietly luxurious.
I’m not convinced this is about becoming more sensible. I still buy books faster than I can read them and remain optimistic every time I purchase a white top despite decades of evidence suggesting I cannot be trusted around anything containing the slightest hint of turmeric.
I think instead my definition of necessary has shifted. I’m more interested in things that make my life feel peaceful, rather than things that just make my life look impressive.
The same applies beyond possessions.
There is that subtle relief that comes with realising you don’t have to answer every message immediately or feel guilty about declining an invitation to an event you didn’t want to go to in the first place, simply because that’s what you’ve always done.
Editing gets a bad reputation. It can be seen as harsh or cold. But I think editing, when done right, is one of the kindest things we can do for ourselves.
And this is not just about wardrobes or cupboards. I’m talking about careers, ambitions, expectations and the imaginary timelines we quietly carry around with us.
So, yesterday, I finally threw away those mystery keys. For all I know, one of them opened something important once. But if I haven’t needed it after three house moves, perhaps I never will. And if one day I remember what they were for, and realise it was important after all? Well, I have to accept that those keys unlocked something that belonged to an earlier draft. Life had other editorial decisions in mind.
In the end, every good story is remembered not because it contains everything, but because it contains exactly what matters.
