A couple of weeks ago I posted this video, in which I talked a little about the New Year and setting intentions (which sounds so much more authentic and spiritual than saying “resolutions,” am I right?). My original list of goals included things like, “Write a proposal for a second book,” and “Actually write four blogs a month.”
But let’s be real. I don’t actually need any ritual prompting to write books, because my anxiety keeps me on track pretty well throughout the year. And it’s this anxiety about other projects that keeps me from doing as much blogging as I’d like. Plus maybe I don’t actually want to write more. This is sort of working for me right now, especially as I settle into my new adulting routine (I’m salaried for the first time in my life and spent yesterday morning downtown being fingerprinted, filling out tax forms, and peeing in a cup for a guy named Sunny).
Two years ago, in an effort to piece together the tattered shreds of my self-esteem after graduate school (etc.), I resolved to wear adorable (read: slutty) matching underwear every day. I asked for gift cards to lingerie stores for Yule and Christmas, went to Victoria Secret for the first time (where a very enthusiastic, startlingly blonde woman named Donna came at me with a pink tape measure), and spent that year mostly feeling like a boss. It was one of my better ideas. So mission accomplished. This year, I wanted to do something similar. Something more fun than serious. Something that wasn’t about being better at something I already work to be better at.
Once upon a time I used to be a musician. Like, seriously. It feels a little like a hallucination now, but I actually went to music school and studied jazz. I played in rock bands, recorded, played with a jazz combo, and meticulously documented multiple hours of daily practice in journals that I can barely understand anymore. I was never brilliant–prodigy-level music people are genuinely terrifying up close and I still sing through my nose and can’t improvise my way out of a paper bag–but I was dedicated. I only cared about playing music.
I stopped playing with any level of seriousness about six years ago, for mostly cliche reasons that I won’t repeat here.
It’s weird thinking about something that used to be so important to me. Now I don’t really feel anything one way or another.
So anyway. This year, I want to see if I can still play. Nothing overly serious. I want to ease into it. I’m committing to writing a new song every month, and learning a new cover. As incentive (few things are better motivators than shame, I’ve found), I’m requiring myself to post both to the Internet.
So, behold, Internet. I give you the January original:
I’m still deciding on the month’s cover.