Why Writers Must Learn to Throw Their Words Away

Evan Swensen
September 1, 2025

“The wastebasket is a writer’s best friend.” With this simple truth, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Nobel Prize winner and master storyteller, captured one of writing’s hardest lessons: the art of letting go. Singer, known for weaving Yiddish folklore into timeless tales, believed good writing was not just about what remained on the page but what was thrown away.

Singer’s life brimmed with struggle long before he held literary acclaim. Born in 1903 in Poland to a family of rabbis, his childhood was steeped in tradition and uncertainty. Poverty shadowed his early years, and when his family moved to Warsaw, Singer was thrust into a chaotic world of political turmoil and cultural tension. His dream of becoming a writer seemed fragile against this backdrop. Yet, he found solace in words, even as they often failed him. Manuscripts piled high, but many never saw light beyond the confines of his wastebasket.

In those rejections of his own drafts lay an act of survival. He knew not every word was sacred, not every line fit to endure. What mattered was finding the truest thread—the one sentence among many discarded pages that breathed life into a story. For Singer, the wastebasket became not a symbol of failure, but of clarity.

Later, after emigrating to the United States in 1935, Singer faced new challenges. Yiddish, his chosen language, was dwindling. Many advised him to abandon it and write in English if he wanted an audience. Yet Singer resisted, holding fast to the tongue of his people, even if it meant fewer readers. Editors and publishers sometimes doubted the commercial reach of his work. Draft after draft was tossed aside, reshaped, rewritten. His wastebasket grew heavy, not because he lacked words, but because he respected them enough to remove what weakened the whole.

The decision to keep writing in Yiddish was, in itself, an act of pruning. He discarded the easy path of assimilation for the harder one of fidelity. Like his pages in the bin, it was a sacrifice made for the sake of truth.

Singer’s discipline bore fruit. In 1978, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, praised for his impassioned storytelling rooted in Jewish tradition and human universality. His stories—The Slave, Enemies, A Love Story, Gimpel the Fool—offered more than entertainment. They preserved a fading culture, gave voice to the dispossessed, and reminded the world of resilience born from loss.

But here lies the irony: none of these works would carry such weight if not for the unseen drafts, the countless discarded pages. Each story sharpened through omission carried the strength of his belief in the wastebasket. By trimming excess, he uncovered the essential. In doing so, he taught writers everywhere that strength lies not in accumulation, but in refinement.

Singer’s legacy is not just in the books he left behind but in the wisdom his process revealed. Writing is less about hoarding words than it is about having the courage to remove them. The wastebasket, far from being a graveyard of failed attempts, is a crucible where weaker phrases burn away so stronger ones might shine.

For any writer, embracing this truth means embracing growth. It requires humility to admit when a passage falters, discipline to cut it, and faith to know the story will stand taller without it. Singer’s life reminds us that the act of discarding is itself an act of devotion to the reader and to truth.

Take a lesson from Singer’s wastebasket. Don’t cling to every draft, every line, every clever turn of phrase. Instead, trust the pruning process. Read his works, see how the sharpness of his storytelling was forged by what he chose to leave behind. Then, in your own writing, find the courage to discard what weakens your message and let only the strongest words remain. That is how writing makes a difference.

The Power of Authors: A Rallying Cry for Today’s Writers to Recognize Their Power, Rise to Their Calling, and Write with Moral Conviction, written by Evan and Lois Swensen with a foreword by Jane L. Evanson, Professor Emerita at Alaska Pacific University, launches this September. You’ve been reading its heartbeat in these Monday messages — soon you can hold the book in your hands.