Early in May, I finished typing up all the handwritten pages for my book. I hadn’t been keeping track and I knew I was starting to repeat some of the stories I’d written. Writing in a non-linear way has been working for me, but suddenly it seemed like the words were getting unruly. When I typed the last handwritten page and compiled the entire document, it totaled 33,800 words in 89 pages.
That’s a lot of words and a lot of pages. I felt like I was losing control of them. I sent them to Staples to get printed with plans to let the pages rest for a few days, then sit down and read them.
Someone suggested taking it slow and giving myself the time and space I needed to read what I’d written. She said to give myself grace. I nodded along, knowing it wouldn’t be simple. Things might bubble up emotionally. The writing might be absolute crap. I knew this, but I wanted to push through and read it quickly so I could figure out what to do next. I didn’t want to lose the momentum I’d built.
But I knew what was going to happen next. I picked up the box of pages from Staples, set them out in the kitchen in plain sight. When a week went by and I never read them, I carried the box with me from room to room. I peeked inside, flipped through the pages, but I couldn’t bring myself to read it.
What I wanted to do was throw the box in the trash. I wanted to light the pages on fire and watch the ash float up through the air, tiny gray specks in the sky. Why did I want to write this book anyway? I mean, who cares? Maybe all I needed was the catharsis of getting the words on the page and that could be that. Maybe I could put all of this to bed and not think about it anymore.
I thought, maybe I don’t want to be a writer.
Plus, I was very tired.
I was tired and things in May were more intense than I’d anticipated. I realized how overcommitted I’ve been, allowing myself to be pulled in too many directions: the search committee at church, running two writing groups, my daughter’s and my husband’s birthdays, kids’ activities three nights a week.
Something had to give.
Only what matters
A few years ago, I chose a mantra for the year: only what matters. Every time I faced a decision that year, I repeated my mantra. I had my priorities and stuck to my guns. I focused on what was most important and it (mostly) worked.
This year, though, things have crept in. Commitments, other people’s demands, work obligations, making sure everyone’s emotional needs are being met (including mine).
The question is always the same.
What really matters?
I’ve spent this year saying yes to too many things. Now it’s time to say no.
There’s nothing wrong with that. Saying no is a valuable skill, one I’m usually good at. I love to say no. We say no so we can say yes to things that matter to us.
But there are seasons of no and seasons of yes. When I decided I’d embark on a year of literary happiness with the goal of writing a book, I made a commitment to saying yes: yes to the writing, yes to be transparent about how it was going, yes to experimentation, yes to being all in.
And, hopefully, yes to being happier.
But how do we quantify happiness? Do we measure how we have felt in the past against how we feel now? Do we re-frame it as contentment or joy? Is it as simple as asking, Am I happy?
I find myself less tuned into my happiness than my unhappiness, which seems more definite. I know for sure when I’m unhappy. Being overcommitted makes me unhappy. Being exhausted makes me unhappy. Feeling like my life is out of control makes me feel unhappy.
Perhaps, then, the opposite is true. Being less committed, more rested, and in control—do these things make me happy?
Probably, but feeling happy is nuanced. It’s not one solid color, but a range between inky black and blinding white. I can’t always tell which shade I am. I might not be able to see yet if the shade has brightened since yesterday or last week or last month.
What I know is, saying yes to everything has not made me happy. Trying new things and treating it all like one big experiment designed to give me feedback I can use to make more decisions has not made happy. It’s made me feel strung out, depleted, and in desperate need of rest.
It’s placed me squarely in the camp of no. And I’m okay with that.
Only what matters.
When I thought that maybe I don’t want to be a writer, it wasn’t because I really want to give up writing. It’s because I am always teetering on the edge—empowered and confident one minute, in the throes of despair the next. Maybe that’s the writing life. Maybe it’s walking the ledge, step by step, hoping a gust of wind doesn’t throw you off balance.
I still haven’t read the pages I printed out, but I will. I didn’t write much in May and it’s okay. I needed a minute to catch my breath, to slow down and rest. Time to figure out what really matters.
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