I'm beginning to realize (belatedly, as usual) that I had absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into when I decided to write something substantial every day for a month. I know that it's not supposed to be easy (hence why it's called a challenge) but I think I truly underestimated just how much of a challenge it would be. It's unbelievably time-consuming. When I'm not writing, I'm thinking about what I'm going to write about next, actively (read: frantically) searching for my next topic, trying to stay somewhat interesting and engaging. I have a very small window of relief when I post every day, knowing that I'm just going to have to turn around and start thinking about or writing tomorrow's blog. I've become obsessed with numbers; Page views, traffic, retweets, comments...things that never even mildly interested me before are eating at me constantly. I'm starting to kind of hate the thing that I have always loved to do.
But believe it or not, that's not the worst part.
The worst part is, I'm beginning to seriously question myself. As a person and as a writer. What is it that I'm trying to say, exactly? What's the point of all of this? Of any of this? My confidence in myself and my abilities is waning quickly. Everything I write feels frivolous, pointless. I'm putting every last bit of myself and my (already limited) energy into this, and for what purpose? And furthermore, if I was going to torture myself, why couldn't I have picked a shorter month? February would have been nice. I'd only have seven more days if I had picked February! Damn me and my stupid short-sightedness!
I realize, of course, that no one is forcing me to do anything, this is all my choice. I could quit any time I want, it's just my own bull-headed stubbornness that's keeping me going. As someone who has never kept a New Year's resolution past the first week of January, I maintain that self-discipline is something that I lack and need desperately. I'm just so sick of myself. I had no idea how annoying I could be on a day-to-day basis. Seriously. My poor, poor husband. That guy must be a freakin' saint.
Anyway, the point of all of this seemingly pointless blabbering is that I'm feeling down, exhausted, and like I could complain for days. I'm beating myself up. And you know what they say: There's no loathing like self-loathing.
But I'll be back tomorrow. And for the nine days following that. And then I'll probably disappear from the blog world, at least temporarily, if only to remember for awhile that there's a world that exists outside of all of this.
I hear it's nice. They have ice cream there.
No comments:
Post a Comment