I’ve become convinced that, in writing and in life, there
are two rules. One is to hold yourself to a high standard. The second is the
opposite: Every now and then, go easy on yourself.
This blog is a good example of those principles in action. I
set a goal this year to have a regular blog, one that covers issues related to
writing and creativity, and I enjoy the project so much that it has become a
daily blog. But yesterday, I worked from the time I woke to the time I went
back to sleep (late). I had a packet of job application materials due, and some
pressing tasks in an online class I teach, and a few other looming deadlines
that could no longer be put off.
As a result, I forgot to write a blog post.
The great benefit of a blog on writing is mostly personal.
While I’d like to encourage conversation and build community and help other
writers—all very high-minded aims—my very favorite part of blogging is the
insight I get into my own beliefs and values when it comes to writing and
editing. Even as I’m consciously writing for an audience, I’m speaking to
myself and clarifying my views. This has been a surprisingly contemplative
activity, one that has helped me to find my center.
It’s only January, so it’s early to have broken a
quasi-resolution (although the original goal was just a regular blog, and not a
daily one). I was genuinely enjoying the energy of an everyday product
(reminiscent of my newspaper days), and of course the readership grows through
predictable publication. Pushing myself to do something important for my own
writing was a great decision.
I missed a day for important reasons. I actually need a
full-time job, and I spent almost the whole day yesterday updating my vita and
choosing and polishing support materials (including some blog entries, as it
happens). Taking time out to fashion a blog post would have been a distraction
from rather urgent work, and really, if I’m going to take a break, I should
probably think first of my family.
That’s where Rule 2 comes into play. There’s only one of me,
and although that math seems easy, I’ve spent most of my first forty-seven
years miscounting. There is one me, one finite life, and I do what I can to
make things happen for myself and my community and the people I love.
I’ve decided that’s sufficient.
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