I spent the dying days of 2020 making lists of habits I’d like to establish (or, in most cases, re-establish in the wake of 2020’s unpredictable daily routines). Stuff like I’d like to start blogging everyday, and maybe turn the blog into a monthly zine or chapbook’s worth of content or post a free short story to every month or release 52 chapbooks over the course of the year.
All of them fell victim to my inability to pull the trigger on a year-long commitment, and thus risk the body-blows to my ego. Because they were all ego projects, to some extent or another. Attempts to stay in contact with my self-perception as someone who writes as my plans for 2021 looked increasingly focused on editorial tasks.
365 days is a daunting timespan, just as 100,000 words is a daunting amount of words to write if you’ve never written a novel. There’s always the danger that ambition outstrips ability, that motivation fades once the immediate need that drove you to the activity is satiated and you’re left with a whole lot of work thats’ no longer filling the same emotional void that drove you to the project in the first place.
It’s easier to start small and focused: blog for seven days straight. Post a single story for free.
Then stop and re-assess: has it brought me closer to the goal I was trying to achieve? Is it worth continuing in this line?
A whole year is just twelve months, and each month is just a handful of 7 day streaks in a row. If you get caught up in the 365, you lose track of how easy those seven days could be without the looming expectations hanging over you.
(Although I’m still tempted by the 52 chapbooks idea. I may yet pull the trigger on that one).
