Me

Twenty Fifteen

I wanted 2015 to be the year I start blogging again.

Scratch that, I wanted 2015 to be the year I start writing again.

It doesn’t matter that “writing” has been on my New Year’s Resolution list since time immemorial. It doesn’t matter that I never live up to that vow, for a variety of excuses that do a pretty decent job of masquerading as plausible reasons. If insanity is repeatedly doing the same thing with the expectation of a different outcome, then call me insanely hopeful about each successive year’s potential to not suck.

I don’t believe in superstitions and symbolisms. Except a tiny part of me does. And that tiny part of me wanted 2015 to be a fresh beginning.

I had wanted a new portfolio site ready to launch, to show that I am no longer flailing and floundering hopelessly in an amorphous career that I fear being snatched out of my hands at any moment. I had wanted a new blog, a cleaner setup that would reflect a calmer heart, a better taxonomy structure that accommodated the multitudes of a personality both in my tags and in my mind. I had wanted a disciplined schedule, with timeslots for writing and timeslots for developing and timeslots for relaxing (what a paradox!) I had wanted a novel outline, a folder full of character notes, a backlog of blog posts ready to go.

That, as you may have guessed, didn’t happen. My professional site sits on my local server 75% complete since July, a heap of feedback notes scattered across various email platforms. My blog is the same as I left it, 18 months ago, with a few half-hearted new sections that I haven’t gotten around to populating. I woke up at noon today, after having spent half the night reading a book that I’ve since decided is too depressing to continue reading. And it’s the end of the first day of 2015, and it doesn’t look to be any different than the last day of 2014.

(It wouldn’t be, of course. Just because your brain is fond of semiotics doesn’t mean reality has to give a flying fuck what meaning you’re trying to conjure from the flip of a calendar page.)

But maybe this is always going to be the way it is. And maybe that’s okay. Right now, I don’t know what I want 2015 to look like. Right now, I still feel like I have whiplash from 2014, and 2013, and 2012. Conditions are imperfect for me to embark on The Next Great Canadian Novel, the Next Great Seminal Thinkpiece, the Next Groundbreaking App. It’s not the clean and tidy start that I can look back on in a hypothetical memoir and say “there, that’s finally when I got my shit together”.

But conditions are never going to be perfect. And I’ve read way too many self-help books to not know that perfectionism is nothing but a fear of failure. If 2014 was to have been the year of emulating Elsa and Letting It Go, then maybe I can attempt to make 2015 the year of being mindful of the present. Of doing and creating and loving and living despite these imperfect conditions. Of failing fast and failing often but most importantly having the courage to fail.

So I don’t have a beautiful new blog theme to unveil. I don’t have a thoughtful treatise on the meaning of life to accompany that unveiling. My “novel” has the exact same word-count it did a month ago. But I’m writing this anyway, and hitting “publish” anyway. And that seems like a not terrible way to start.

Happy 2015, y’all.

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