Rediscovery

"The reason I haven't written much of worth for many years is because I want to write it all, and write it perfectly, when I do."

The above quote, from the blog of a former co-worker, really sums up - more or less - why I've had such a hard time keeping this blog continuous through the years. I want so badly for everything I write to be of the highest caliber that I feel obligated to spend as much time as possible on each post, crafting it to be as good on the screen as it was in my mind. That, or I want to make sure that the idea itself is fully formed in my mind, so that I don't go back in days to come and think "I really should've tackled X, Y and Z in that post." Not coincidentally, these two things lead to a fair bit of stasis on here save for when the muse moves me to write without any further hesitation or perusal on a topic.  This is one of those times.

I really could not have read that quote at a better time, because it crystallizes something I've struggled with for quite a while - that being, if I'm going to write something, it better be the best possible version of that thing. Naturally, this precludes me from writing much of anything when I spend more time worrying about not screwing up what I'm about to write than actually writing. And I've lost quite a few opportunities to write on things that I had what I felt were insightful observations on, simply because I was paralyzed with worry that I wasn't prepared at that moment to devote the energy and time needed to write the magnum opus I felt I should and would be able to.

But with the crystallization came a realization...not every post needs to be the definitive account of everything associated with that subject. Nothing was ever gained by the vast wasteland of great ideas thrown away in a writer's head for fear of not giving it its proper due - at least not in a writing skills sense. Yes, each post/each instance of the written word should be the best possible reflection of you as the writer and your effort. But in the words of an old teacher of mine at an Advanced Studies Program in high school, "everyone misses the mark at some point." He was talking about sinning, but it applies to writing as well (but let's hope "missing the mark" doesn't involve plagiarism). It's a cliche, but a true one, that you'll never score if you don't shoot. And thus far on here, I feel that the desire to score every time has led me to shoot less often than I should've. This may look great in efficiency ratings, but this isn't basketball or football (where a premium, so long as you actually take shots, is placed on taking high-percentage shots or making high-percentage throws) and there's no Writer Efficiency Rating saying "Gee Sean, you haven't written very much, but boy has it been good when you have." Writing is as much personal endeavor as public good, and quite often it serves a useful outlet for thoughts bouncing around in one's head - whether finding stories in baseball statistics or trying to make sense of social dynamics in your own life. For those of you expecting to find juicy details of my personal life on here, however, I'll have to disappoint you - you'd have to hack into my computer to find my musings on things concerning myself.

But the larger point remains, that writing is an outlet. It's one of the things I do best, and what I hope to one day (hopefully sooner rather than later) make a career out of. A wise man, whom I may or may not know, once said that "You have knowledge. Let others light their candles at it." My knowledge - defined by him as the thing that is unique to you and you alone - is my writing. One of the books that's made a lasting impression on me was Montaigne's Essays, selections of which I read in an Honors class sophomore year at BC. The final essay in that slim book we had to buy, "Of Experience," has stuck with me more than any of the others. Montaigne was largely concerned with knowing oneself as a way to know the world around you - indeed, his starting point was the phrase "Que sais-je," or, "What do I know?" - and one of the conclusions he draws in "Of Experience" cuts directly to the heart of what I've been trying to get across here. He writes:

"We are great fools. 'He has spent his life in idleness,' we say; 'I have done nothing today.' What, have you not lived? That is not only the fundamental but the most illustrious of your occupations...To compose our character is our duty, not to compose books, and to win, not battles and provinces, but order and tranquility in our conduct. Our great and glorious masterpiece is to live appropriately."

There's more to that - Montaigne is but one part of a larger theory I have on living appropriately and the legacy we leave by what we do, informed by several different books I read in those Honors classes - but the Cliff Notes version as it applies to this situation is as follows. To know the world, I need to know myself. To know myself, I need to keep writing. Writing (though it may appear, superfluously, to fit into the "composing books" category) helps me to live according to what I feel I should be doing with my time here. After all, none of us know when our time is up and our contributions dwindle to nothing. And although I'd love to have a high batting average in my writing, we don't always live in the best of all possible worlds when it comes to how posts/musings/stories come out. I'd rather live according to Teddy Roosevelt's famous saying - "The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat" - than be scared into non-action by the possibility of mediocrity. After all, as I've found out more than once in my life, leaving a door propped open a smidge just so you can say it's not shut usually isn't worth it. Once you move to open it fully and - on some occasions, find that it opens quite easily - you often realize that what was waiting for you on the other side was more than worth the risk of having the door slam completely shut.

This is all to say, in 1000 more words than were necessary - I plan on writing much more often on here.