Aspirations

I have long aspired to be a freelance writer. I’ve done tons of research. I have grad schools picked out to teach me how to develop characters and polish my thoughts into shiny nuggets of literary brilliance. I would love to spend my days spinning stories and knitting together worlds that are not my own.

Here’s the problem: I don’t actually have anything to say that seems even remotely publishable. I could write until my fingers fall off about motherhood and my children. But I’m relatively sure that what I would write hasn’t already been said a hundred times before by much better writers than I. Other than that, I’m not much of an expert in anything else. Therefore there’s not much else that I could write credibly about.

I’m no Annie Proulx who has such a visceral tie to the land in Wyoming and the people who live there. Who can tell stories about people of such depth and personality that I would love to buy them a beer. I just don’t have those kinds of roots anywhere, much less where I live now.

I’m no John Irving or Tom Robbins or Christopher Moore or Wally Lamb who employ such smooth-tongued characters to tell their stories. It’s like they have some razor sharp inside view into human nature that gives them some special power to craft dialogue that demands to be remembered.

I’m no JRR Tolkien or C.S. Lewis or Phillip Pullman or J.K. Rowling who lavish their paper worlds with such immense color and fantasy. I wonder if these magical kingdoms came straight from their everyday imaginations or if by some slide of hand they were given a glimpse into a wholly other world full of spectacle and glory.

The only insight I have is into my own personal brand of crazy. The only glory gleaned from my daily life is on those days when I manage to tick off a few things on a to-do list or not to yell too much. The inherent spectacle is brought by my children and their penchant for dramatic displays.

So where does this all leave me and my aspirations? Well, writing to you, of course.

Welcome

I’m tired of making New Year’s resolutions. I get all attached to these very specific goals that I spend weeks thinking about, phrasing just so. And then all they do is serve as fodder for self flagellation as the year goes on and life takes over and veers me from my previously carefully constructed course. So I’m trying a different approach this year. Instead of setting goals for myself, I’m setting a challenge for myself. Which is where you and this new blog come in. As I’m sure you can infer from the title, I’m going to write exactly 365 words everyday for exactly 365 days.

The easiest part of this challenge will be putting pen to paper or fingers to keys as the case may be. My daily life is hectic, unpredictable and crazy enough to provide more than enough material for 365 measly words a day. The real challenge for me is going to be have the courage to share it with you, even when it’s messy, even when I know my words don’t make sense and especially when I’d rather just go to bed than talk to one more person about my own personal daily grind.

The secondary challenge is going to be staying present enough in every day that I can learn from this courage and from the sharing of my life with the people I love and maybe even some strangers.

I’ve been trying to plan this for weeks. Figure out what tone I want to set. If I can just write stream of consciousness everyday or if I should be more professional about that. Is it ok to share the really hard days along with the everyday days? Or should I just focus on being eloquent and how the words fit together rather than what they’re actually saying.

I’ve decided that for now, I’m going to let my courage do the talking and let the rest fall as it may. I’ve made peace with the fact that my words won’t always be what I want them to be and they won’t always make sense. But they will always number 365. Go ahead, you can count them. See you tomorrow.