One month ago, I sat down to write my 100th weekly blog post, startled by the number of essays as well as the speedy passage of the last two years.
I began blogging at the suggestion of a social media consultant to market my soon-to-be self-published fitness habit book, Daily. She simultaneously introduced me to Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, social media platforms that made me more than a little uncomfortable. I was aghast at the idea of drawing attention to myself even though my intention was to communicate my passion for exercise. But writing blog posts felt different -- it was both a way to convey ideas as well as to reflect on experiences.
With time, my tone changed. What I envisioned was no-nonsense explorations of exercise science and practical habit formation tips; what emerged was me grappling with middle-age musses, everyday disarrays, and, recently, pandemic confusion. Through it all, exercise has been my patient compatriot.
I flip through the pages of past posts, and I am surprised at not just the evolution of the content, but the progression of composition. Writing has been a lifelong journey of mine, from elementary school storytelling, to adolescent angst journaling, to legal brief composing. Like exercise, writing is foundational to my sense of well-being and central to self-expression.
I rummage randomly through my essays. Some make me chuckle, others seem trite. A few make my eyes fill with tears, as I touch subjects that gently release quietly smothered and tucked-away emotions.
I think I am improving with practice. I estimate that I have spent at least 2000 hours between writing and editing my book and my weekly posts. Of course, that pales in comparison to Malcolm Gladwell’s belief that it takes approximately 10,000 hours of deliberate practice to master a skill. If I quit my day job and write diligently full time, it will take four more years before I have writing prowess.
Unfortunately, tenacity is not a substitute for facility, and diligence is not a substitute for aptitude. I am astutely aware that 10,000 hours at the gym is not going to turn me into an NBA player. My expository accomplishments will always be tempered by a talent limitation, but that knowledge does not discourage me. Persistence is its own reward. Pushing the boundaries of capability is a worthy endeavor, even if I remain perpetually dissatisfied with the outcome.
There is glory in aspiration and dignity in dedication. I write because I am unable not to. The process keeps my troubles contained, preventing them from tumbling forth, tripping over themselves in their eagerness to be free.
If my legacy is becoming a pretty good and somewhat prolific writer, so be it.