A few weeks ago, I did something stupid. Monumentally stupid. I’ll bet it’s not uncommon, though. In a fit of writerly self-loathing, I deleted an entire work of fiction I’d been working on, THE thing I’d been working on, having decided that it was complete and utter shit and that I needed to start from scratch. I don’t know if other aspiring failed novelists do this, or if any successful writers do this, but I’m willing to bet a good many of them have.
Maybe you’ve done this crazy thing, too.
And if you’ve been there, you’ll know the feeling, having completely erased all traces of the work itself (other than perhaps your initial notes when the idea first came to you), of stopping dead in your tracks while you were going about your day, as you come to the realization that you trashed some really good shit. Or the potential for some really good shit, anyway.
And you’ll also know the feeling, as you scramble to remember and recreate what you’d thrown away, of wishing someone had caught you in the act and smacked some sense into you, because again, you probably trashed some really good shit. Or the potential for some really good shit, anyway.
I don’t really know what made me do that, but I have one guess.
You see, I am tired of writing about me.
As you’ve probably already figured out from having spent two seconds with me or reading my blog or Twitter feed or whatever, I am completely and profoundly and thoroughly messed up. And for the past couple of years (and sadly, not longer than that), I’ve been working on becoming unmessed up. And what happens when you try to get unmessed up from how messed up I was is that you first have to get to know yourself, and all your issues, and all the reasons for those issues, as well as you possibly can.
So right now, there is nothing in the world I know better than I know me and my issues. Not the people in my life. Not the people who aren’t in my life. Not my job. Not the things I love, like sports and traveling. Not the things I hate, like inequality and the Boston Bruins.
You write what you know.
And I am tired of writing about how messed up I am. For one thing, it’s incredibly narcissistic, and for another, it’s really boring. I work on my issues all day, every day, and then I sit down to write, and find my issues on the page, just disguised with different words. It’s exhausting.
So, in an effort to know other things and consequently write about other things, I decided to shamelessly borrow an idea from a friend, and made a list of 30 things I would like to do before I hit age 30, in August. Adventures, tasks, experiences, accomplishments, you name it. I’m not sharing the list here just yet, although some friends and my sister have seen it (accountability, yo), because I’m going to write up a blog post for each thing I do. Some of them are frivolous, others are practical, many are just things I have always wanted an excuse to do. The one thing they all have in common is that they are a break from Working On Myself (although some of the things might have a positive effect on that front).
I promise this is still a hockey and life blog, although it’s been light on the hockey lately (all the hockey stuff has been on Eyes On The Prize, so go look!). There will be hockey on here, I promise. And there will be some sports stuff I’m pretty excited about. And there will also be 30 posts, between now and my 30th birthday, in no particular order. Pass, fail, half-accomplish, whatever, I’ll write one for each.
Anyway. This blog is still alive, and I hope you’ll come back and read it and possibly laugh at me.