Is there such a thing as a writer who doesn’t make New Year’s resolutions? I’m sure there are a few who claim not to, but are they telling the truth? I’m pretty sure there is a little voice in the back of their head saying, “1) edit novel, 2) submit work to journals, 3) meditate, 4) write something (anything) every day, 5) write at least 50,000 words on unnamed novel…” even if they choose to not tell anyone about it. Voices in heads are considered socially perverse anyway, right?
I make writing resolutions every year. I never meet them, even though I make sure they aren’t too ambitious or heady. Come January, I’m usually pretty disappointed in my laziness throughout the year and spend a week or so beating the shit out myself (figuratively speaking, of course) for being a useless clod of a writer. What I should be doing instead is asking myself why I am pretending to be such a useless clod of a writer.
I truly believe laziness is a personality trait. It is something I have struggled with my entire life, to the point where having to work hard (or even not so hard at times) can give me a full-on panic attack. Of course, I fear failure. I might even fear success. I’m certainly not the first. When fear and laziness gets in the way of what you want to do, something needs to happen. I think I have a good idea of what that something is for me.
I say mean things to myself. I tell myself over and over again that I must do such and such by a certain time. Then, I degrade myself mentally the entire time I’m trying to do it. I think about how I really need to get published and decide that being published is the only way to prove my self-worth. Then, I feel bad because it hasn’t happened yet. How could it, if I haven’t really tried? I don’t get much writing done in the course of a year and the whiny imp inside of me equates that to being an incompetent, stupid, and worthless human being. The truth is, saying these things to myself is wholly debilitating. I need to stop. Laziness is who I am. The true Me doesn’t give two shits when and if I sit down to write or even if it’s any good. That particular Me writes because it’s what she must do, like taking in water while drowning. You can’t drown without inhaling, not that I’ve tried.
When it comes right down to it, you just can’t write the next great American novel if you don’t write the next great American novel. My resolution is not to write it.
Not now, not ever.