One of the challenges of setting ambitious writing goals for yourself is the reality that in doing so, you will invariably fall short of your ideal. While I’d love to wake up at 5:30 a.m. every morning so I can go surfing and work on my book before breakfast, the reality is that most days I just have enough in me to get out of bed, get to work, and make sure I drink enough water.
I am an avid list-maker, following in the tradition of literary list-makers. Sei Shonagon, the great medieval Japanese diarist, was a creator of breathtaking lists. I like to think of Shonagon as the Anna Wintour of the medieval Japanese court. She could be a little elitist for sure, and limited in her worldview, but wherever she turned her eye, her vision was sharp. There are ideal literary lists that capture my imagination, and then there are real-life lists where the ambitions of the spirit vie with the need for avocados and toothpaste.
You’ll find my desk strewn with many unfinished lists, a post-it graveyard of my insufficiency and lassitude; the more the unfinished lists pile up on my desk, the more inadequate and ashamed I feel. Why can’t I pull it together? Why can’t I check off all the boxes? And why was it that on the days I had checked off all the boxes, I felt so deflated spiritually, as if the soul of the day had somehow been vampirically sapped out of the hours? The days in which I had dutifully crossed every item off the list had little to no spontaneity, and the days where I had failed to accomplish all the goals on my list were often full of little surprises–a visit to the thrift store, where I found a $5000 couch for $90, a call from my father that reminded me of a trip to North Dakota, a spontaneous lunchtime surf session when I should have been meditating where I saw a monk seal… sometimes the article can go unwritten, because the adventure had in its place is far more valuable.
How could I live up to the spirit of the ambitious goal while also allowing myself to fail in the face of such ambition? How could I live up to my ambitions without sucking the life out of life?
Recently I found a powerful solution. I realized that many of my goals stemmed from a deeper desire. My goal to surf every morning stemmed from a desire to remain connected to nature and to the ocean, to keep a force greater than myself in my life. I wanted to go to the ocean to be humbled, to be calmed, to connect with the wild. My goal to meditate stemmed from the desire to tap into my own spiritual powers. My goal to write stems from my desire to remain in touch with my creative side, to confront the darkness within and without.
I realized that I could live up to the spirit of my goals without losing my ambition, if I redefined failure.
Redefining Failure: Writing Failure is Part of the Process
When I failed, rather than feeling defeated, I could reframe the loss. Writers need material and life is the material we use. I could choose to celebrate the material gained. Sometimes I chose to write instead of surf and other times I chose a long talk with a good friend over the research. Sometimes the talk with the friend turned out to be the research. Sometimes I chose to read rather than write.
Rather than lament having failed to accomplish something, I recognized that my failure was working through me, bringing me toward a point where I’d simply have to set aside a whole day to reconnect with the parts I felt I wasn’t accomplishing. This way, if I failed to surf for a few mornings in a row, it was okay because I’d set aside a whole Saturday morning to do just that. Or, if I failed to mediate for a week at a time, that could be okay, because it just meant I needed to set aside a Sunday to connect with my spiritual side. And if I didn’t get my morning writing in because I let myself sleep in a little, that just meant I’d set aside a day on the weekend to work exclusively on my poetry, or my blog, or whatever it was that needed attention.
Having reframed failure, I felt more comfortable failing. Each failure became “time in the bank” toward setting aside a day or a half day to do just that. So a few days of not working on my book, just meant I’d work on it on a Friday evening.
I no longer fail or fall short; I just make time later. And I embrace the vitality of each day, whose vital hours cannot fit on any list. Sometimes the lost essay is time with loved ones gained.
About the Writer
Janice Greenwood is a writer, surfer, and poet. She holds an M.F.A. in poetry and creative writing from Columbia University.