I started this blog only last month (the posts in the archive are loaded from various old blogs and written journal entries). The same time during the same month, I vowed to do daily writing. Committing to doing it at least for a month first. Privately reminding myself that if I fail to write every day about anything and everything I want for a month; I am not allowed to claim writing is my passion.
Harsh, I know.
But I have been mopping around instead of writing for the most part of this year (blaming it on Covid), that I felt a little bit of writing-self-discipline was required.
Today, WordPress reminded me that I am on my 40-day writing streak. I have passed the measly goal I set for myself early. By my own account, I am now allowed to call myself a writer. Woohoo!!
Now, my goal-oriented brain is taunting me with:
You did it for a month, can you do it for a year?
A tall order, I know.
Especially since I am hoping the next 300-ish days will be less grim than the past 300-ish days. Where I dream of sitting in my office cubicle, travelling to Fiji, celebrating my parents’ birthdays together with them and hiking Kumano Kodo trails. Even now, before doing any of it, all those things seem more important than committing to daily writing for a year. Or is it? I don’t have the answer yet.
What I know for now is that daily writing has been an anchor to my mental health. It has kept me sane and centered. And I can genuinely say that I am happier now compared to my pre-daily writing days. And I do wonder if it makes me feel this way only after doing it for more than a month, how will I feel in a year time if I commit to it.
Alas, here is me, committing to finishing my daily writing journey from 30 days to 365 days, starting from today (which, to my woo-woo side delight, is the 11th of the 11th), the start of the holiday season, mid of NaMeWriMo and end of lock-down.