One would think that making a promise to oneself would be an easy one to keep. That is a lie. It is much easier to break promises we make to ourselves than the ones we make to other people.
Even if it is cheesy, trite, banal, or downright bad, I’m keeping a promise to myself today. I promised myself that every month at least once, I will post to this blog. It’s not about the blog; it IS about the writing.
Lately, even though I am in a writing workshop class, I feel that my writing is dead. Worse than dead, it’s like dry toast left out in the desert at noon on the hottest day of the year. Perhaps that is my inner critic speaking, so maybe my inner idealist ought to come out from under than rock she’s hiding under.
I recently have been writing a series of multi-genre memoir pieces about loss and life and moving forward, and to be honest, I need a break from memoir and tripping through the fragments of my life that probably no one else gives a damn about – except, perhaps, my mother. And maybe a couple of other people.
What’s on my mind lately? Traveling. Getting the hell out of here and taking a train somewhere, anywhere. Why a train? Life is slower, the pace and rhythm suit my thinking speed, and the internet connection is thankfully dubious at best. I’ve been working on a piece about trains and writing and the eclectic people who travel by train. I’ve been drawing on memories of my last trip by train, and the thought of once again boarding a train and traveling with a host of unknown people has a distinctive appeal at the moment. Perhaps I’ve been living in my own little cocoon for too long.
I wonder why it is so difficult to keep my promise of writing every day (even if I don’t post it to the blog every day); after all, writing is the one thing I do for myself. Maybe that’s the trouble; other matters creep into my days and I find that maintaining coherent thought on a single topic a task only worthy of Hercules. Maybe it isn’t the promise about writing every day that I find hard to keep – maybe making myself a priority in my life is the underlying promise to which I haven’t been faithful.
And so, my leap of faith, my choice to keep a promise, my fidelity to my self-worth is fulfilled in this small act of writing – even if it is as dry as brittle toast.