I forgot to write yesterday.
I thought about it in the morning and made plans to do it after the other tasks of my day were completed, but it slipped my mind. I realized this morning when my writer buddy did his daily reminder/check in.
My first reaction was tears. I was 40 days into a streak that started on Jan. 1 and I had grown quite fond of the idea that I would write every day this year. I felt actual grief as I realized that possibility had slipped away for another year.Then came the anger. I could feel it welling up inside. Normally, it would have manifested as self-abuse (“I can’t believe I am so stupid” or “I’m such a failure”) or excuses (I was distracted by family … my neck hurts … i have too much on my plate), but this morning, instead of allowing anger to become my focus, I focused on what hid beneath the anger.
Disappointment in myself. Fear of disappointing others. Embarrassment. These are the feelings I work hardest to avoid. Since it is impossible to avoid them, I cover them up with indignation and justification. Not today.
Today, I owned my sadness, my embarrassment, and my disappointment. I admitted my failure and asked for support. I accepted the compassion of others and found forgiveness for myself. Most importantly, I shifted my perspective from one of failure to one of learning.
And, on the prompting of my very supportive friend who brooks no excuses, I did three Hail Bradburys,
a My Muse,
and wrote this confessional. Now I’m moving on.
I want to close by saying thank you to those who have done so much to help me grow as a writer and a person in the last two years. I am eternally grateful to your patience and love as I figure this shit out: Mikey, Sara, Jim, Dannie, Lesley, Emily, Mallory, the RRWG. Y’all catch the brunt of my learning process. I love you.