In high school and college, I rocked at essays. I totally got that as much as an essay was about the content, it was equally about the organization: Each paragraph following its topic sentence, each topic sentence following the essay's thesis, each paraphrase or quotation neatly cited, and an orderly bibliography alphabetized on the final page. Throw in a "juxtaposition" here, a "paradigm" there, wrap it up with a neat little bow, and exchange it for a shiny "A" on your transcript. It was both easy and intoxicating.
Here's another thing about me: I like setting goals. A LOT. Which means I get really into making resolutions. So much so that I do it twice a year, at New Year's and on my birthday.
But here's what I've noticed the past few years—I've been treating my resolutions like topic sentences for my life. In an essay, if a sentence in a paragraph isn't about the topic sentence, you don't write it. Whatever strict abstract organizational skills I possess that make essay writing so easy for me (and they're skills that, unfortunately, don't transfer to being organized in real life—just ask my husband how many times I've misplaced my keys, sunglasses, and cell phone over the past year)—those skills also have been making me feel bad. I feel bad when I want to look at YouTube videos or read about otters in BBC Wildlife Magazine or try to learn to play a song on the guitar, because none of those things fit in with my goals to write more or run a certain number of miles or learn a foreign language within a twelve-month period. I feel guilty for watching Downton Abbey or exploring new music online, because I really ought to be following through with learning yoga. Or else I feel guilty for not drawing or knitting more because I happen to feel more like planting an herb garden, or spending time with my niece and nephew. What a mess!
I sat down yesterday to write down my New Year's resolutions for 2014. With each resolution—Run at least ten miles a week, Keep a daily journal, Put clothes away, Edit and illustrate Submatrain by March, etc.—I felt my dread grow. How was I going to balance all of these goals? I'm never going to be perfect, and there are only so many hours in a day. What about the days when I want to crack open a lemon seltzer water after work and read a few Emily Dickinson poems while lying on the couch, or catch up on some Crash Course videos, or try to learn Third Eye Blind's hit song from 1999, "Deep Inside of You," on guitar? The idea filled me with preemptive guilt. I would probably think about doing those things for a few seconds, then force myself to do something that was more "worthwhile" like jumping on the treadmill, because it fit in better with my goals—that is, it supported a topic sentence (i.e. "Jessie resolves to run ten miles per week throughout 2014") that in turn supported my thesis statement ("This year Jessie is going to improve herself in a number of ways, including increasing the prolificacy of her fiction writing, strengthening her body and mind, and further developing her organizational skills").
In short, I was stressing myself out for no real reason whatsoever.
And then, suddenly, I had an unnerving but undeniably exciting idea. What if I made no resolutions at all in 2014? What if I resolved not to resolve? I then mentally crossed out my list of thirteen bullet points, along with all of their associated sub-bullet points. Immediately I was filled with giddy relief.
In the end, though, resolutions are a tough habit to break. I wrote down two new goals, but only two:
1) Try hard to write or edit at least 3,000 words a week, but don't beat yourself up if some weeks you don't manage it. Everybody has bad days or busy weeks or the flu sometimes.
2) Do whatever makes you feel happy, without feeling guilty.
For the first goal, I chose something that is manageable for me, a goal that's easy to meet and even exceed. I used to feel bad when I would hear about people who wrote whole novels in six weeks, or did double the word count for NaNoWriMo. I felt like if I could just focus more intensely or get it together and manage my time better, I could be one of those superhuman, scarily prolific writers. But, as I often tell the special needs kids I work with, everybody's different. I genuinely think that it's awesome and admirable that some people can write a whole book in a month. However, my brain doesn't work that way. I write at a slower pace. That doesn't mean I'm a lesser writer or that I don't care about my craft, it's just the way that I am. Sure, I might write slowly, but I'm writing. I've written two novels, a chapter book, a picture book, and dozens of short stories, and I've got no plans to stop any time soon.
With my second resolution, I hope to alleviate my anxiety about whether the things I choose to do are worthwhile or not. I want to let myself decide, on a daily basis, what I feel like doing. I'm not worried that I will stop exercising, because running makes me feel good and it keeps my anxiety in check. I'm not worried that I'll suddenly start eating junk, because I love fresh vegetables (as a vegetarian, I'd be out of luck if I didn't). I don't know why I didn't realize this years ago, but I trust myself to make choices that are good for my health and happiness.
In short, like a Disney heroine (a cool one like Mulan or Merida, not a lame foofy princess), I want to follow my heart. And I'm excited to see where that leads.
