365 in 365: I wrote every day for a year and here’s what happened
Cool, either my obnoxiously clickbaity title actually worked or you just associate yourself enough with me to feel obligated to read everything I publish on the internet (thanks, Mom, I love you).
Anyway, on October 27, 2016, I challenged myself to fill one page of a medium-sized notebook with writing for every day of the subsequent year. It didn’t necessarily have to be one entry written every day, there just had to be 365 pages by the end of 365 days. I did my best to write every consecutive day, but it just wasn’t reasonable with my busy schedule/general laziness.
“So, basically, you kept a diary.”
Yes and no. The intention of this was not to document the mundane plight of a mid-twenties millennial (Buzzfeed’s got that pretty locked up), but to ultimately create more content for my blog. You know, sports-related, chest-bumping jock stuff.
I figured writing every day for a year would result in at least ten new blog posts, thus increasing my odds of becoming a viral sensation. As with every thing else in my life, I figured very wrong. What I got in that year was two measly blog posts — a quarter of what I cranked out in the four months preceding. Not great. If I had a report card, it would say “Follows directions, but struggles with execution.” It would also say “distraction to others” because that’s on all of my report cards.
Though I only published two, I drafted probably a hundred. A hundred half-baked sports takes I deemed unfit for your judging eyes. As the Italian Stallion (Rocky Balboa, not me — understandable mix up) once said about the internet, “It’s a very mean and nasty place, and I don’t care how tough you are, it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it.” At least I think that’s what he was talking about.
“If there were only a hundred sports blogs, what did you write about for the the other 265 days?”
I’m glad you asked (you probably didn’t, but this is my blog and I make the rules).
In the other 265 days, I drafted cover letters for dozens of jobs I didn’t get and thank yous for the one I did. I wrote a Father’s Day card and a Maid of Honor speech (five times over). I wrote jokes I won’t tell and letters I’ll never send. I started a novel you’d throw out, a screenplay you’d give a crappy Rotten Tomatoes review and a handful of poems that would make you call my mom because you’re “just a little concerned” about my well-being.
On days I didn’t know what to write, I wrote my favorite song lyrics, over and over and over again. You know the kind, the ones you relate to on an existential level — “I like Kevin Bacon, but I hate Footloose.”
While there are a few bright spots, the majority of it is total garbage — stuff you’d rather get rammed in the shins with a shopping cart than read. There are so very few of those 365 entries that have any significance at all. I’d rather burn them than read them again, and I’ll probably do just that.
Me wanting to burn all of it is not quite the outcome I expected, but I’m still glad I went through with this. I was perusing Twitter the other day when I saw #WhyIWrite was trending. I had been feeling a little burned out, but reading through these tweets reminded me why I challenged myself to do this and why I’ll continue to do it beyond 365 days.
First and foremost, I write because I have a lot to say and people will typically only humor me face to face for so long. Blank paper humors me all damn day.
I write because I’m a perfectionist and this is the only place where everything is in my control. In real life, there’s no going back to swap what I said for something more witty/poignant/empathetic/all of the above. There’s no proofreading and editing out all the awkward, insensitive and downright stupid things that come out of my mouth (when my foot isn’t already in it, that is).
But, mostly, I write because a lot of shit happens in life and this is the only way I know how to even try to make sense of it. I’m never going to have exactly the right words to describe the highs, the lows and everything in between — and I’m okay with that. I’ll keep trying anyway because that’s who I am. I may not be good at too many things, but dammit if I don’t try hard.
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