You’ve heard little from me for some time now. But today, I’ve decided to renew this practice, writing and publishing in brief, that is, a blog.

Few things have energized my writing like an active blog. The history of my blogging is quick to narrate. In May 2015 I published my first post. I didn’t follow it up until late November. For the next three months until mid-February, I was consistent, publishing a post most weeks.

Then I quit.

Why, you ask? I hardly remember.

…I might have said I couldn’t spare the writing time nor the mental energy required by my literature thesis. I never finished that thesis.

…I might have said I couldn’t think of anything to write. Although most of my finished posts grew from ideas I had while writing something else.

…I might even have been discontented with my erratic choice of topics. Incidentally, I haven’t sorted that one out yet.

Whatever the reason, I quit and only reprised the practice twice later that year. I haven’t blogged in two years now. And what is doubtless no surprise to you, my writing has suffered.

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Blogging, and then abandoning the practice, has taught me several important lessons. Sharing these are why I’m writing today.

First of all, publishing a blog doesn’t, as I thought, detract from the rest of my writing, as if it took my best effort away from projects I actually cared about. On the contrary, it turned out to be a good impetus for writing my higher priority projects, sometimes indirectly addressing relevant themes. When I stopped blogging, I also pulled back from my other writing. Blogging hadn’t gotten in the way, it had been beneficial. Quitting my blog, now that’s what got in the way of my writing.

A second lesson: having a regular obligation to finish something, even when that obligation is self-imposed and lacks enforcement –or especially when it does– keeps me focused on my purpose. I can’t write without the attentive consistency with which I consider my reason for writing, although this attention is less serene than I make it sound. There’s no more effective way to recall my purpose than to torment myself with the act of writing, and a torment it is. I can’t write without asking myself ‘why am I doing this?’ As it turns out, asking over and over is a good way to remind myself of the answer, which is enough to keep me writing, even if it’s unpleasant to contemplate my flailing ambition. It’s that painful, yes, but that necessary.

Third, and perhaps most important, is that even short posts add to the whole. It compounds the reward of writing. The pain of writing serves its purpose; the pleasure, even more so. I admit, I find only a little pleasure in the act of writing itself, mostly I find it frustrating. Yet, the satisfaction I get from seeing my collection of finished work grow, my skill improve, and my mind mature is a higher-order pleasure. Significantly, it’s changed my self-definition. Consistent publishing made me think of myself as an immature writer rather than a hypothetical writer. It’s still not an impressive sense-of-self. Nevertheless it’s a step in the right direction. If I keep it up, immature will give way to established. And from there, where then is the sky, that proverbial limit?

These are the “consistent little wins” often heralded by writers as the key to progress. It wasn’t a new idea for me, only one I’d failed to grasp. Before my blogging experience I would have shrugged at the obviousness of the insight –in fact, I’m quite sure I did on several occasions– failing to appreciate that, in Morpheus’s words, ‘there’s a difference between knowing the path and walking it.’ Having learned my lesson, my less pithy corollary is: there’s no way of knowing the difference between knowing and walking the path without first walking it. Knowing is often more empirical and less theoretical than I’d like to admit.

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And yet, experiencing the reward of little wins was only a part of this third lesson. There’s another side to the story, the little losses. To fully appreciate the difference between consistent success and consistent failure, I had to follow success with failure — once again, I had to walk the path to know it. Each time I’ve abandoned a writing commitment –whether a blog, an essay, or an academic thesis– and each time I’ve started something new –burdened with a newly minted reason to doubt I’d finish– I found myself reflecting on the existential pain and reward that drives and stalls my writing. I saw it when I quit, and also every day that followed without my writing. Each was a new loss, and each more painful than the pain of writing.

These lost opportunities remain a loss. I’ll never have a chance to write the things I might have written those days now forever past. I do have a chance to write the things I might in days to come. Today, for instance. Will I choose to lose a little each day until I have nothing left?

This note has been mostly aspirational. I’ve told you what I’ve learned and hinted at a promise to write again soon. So should I end on a melancholy tone? Writing is difficult for me, unequivocally tragic, so I think it only right. This is the end, at least for today. And tomorrow? Well even in tragedy, there’s a tomorrow, which I believe is where the beauty of the form is found.

Until next time I remain
Yours &c,