I have a bad habit of picking hobbies that are a bit too much like my job. "I know how I'll relax – I'll start another blog! Brilliant!" I like my work, so on the surface, maybe it's not a bad impulse, but sometimes your brain just needs a change of pace.
So, to make a long and not very sensible story short enough to seem to make sense, I started learning to juggle. One of the best things about juggling is that it's almost completely unlike blogging. Here's what I've learned, and how those lessons have absolutely no application to writing...
(1) Starting is easy.
For me, the worst part of writing is the empty screen. Outside, light brings warmth and life. Inside, the white light of a blank document is a soul-emptying abyss. In college, I spent the night before a paper was due, roughly from dinner to 2am, working on the title. Every word was searing agony. Somehow, from 2am-3am, I managed to squeeze out a paper.
When I juggle, I just pick up the balls (I use bean-bags, but "bags" just doesn't sound right) and go. There's no preparation, no angst, no soul searching – just throw and catch. If I miss, I miss – it's unavoidable, and it doesn't matter.
Sometimes, you have to skip the title, skip the first sentence, skip the self-editing, and just get started. Any word on the page means it isn't blank anymore. You've conquered the void.
(2) Experts are helpful.
I can watch a grainy YouTube video from a 15-year-old and learn something about juggling. It's a physical skill, and at some point, there are only so many ways to do it. The basics are the same for just about anyone.
Some days, I can read 50 articles about blogging and feel like I didn't learn anything. Actually, some days, I finish 50 articles and I feel dumber. Most of the time, it's not even the fault of the authors – we're just not very good at explaining (or even really understanding) our own mental processes. I can tell you when I've written a good post, but telling you how I did it is guesswork at best. Even if your advice is dead-on, I may just not be ready to hear it.
It's a tough balance. I absolutely believe you can learn from others, even with something as complex and personal as writing, but you have to know enough about yourself to figure out what you need to learn. Doing and learning need to happen together, and you'll always be learning.
(3) There's no audience.
Ok, some jugglers have an audience, but I'm not one of them – believe me when I say this an act of mercy for the audience. Some days, I completely suck, and you know what – it doesn't matter. I laugh it off and try again, and somehow even failure is fun.
Writing for an audience, especially a 90,000 reader audience like the one I face in my day job, can be paralyzing. Second-guessing yourself is inevitable, criticism comes fast and furious some days, and you can end up analyzing yourself into a fetal position. You can't please everyone, and believe me, you won't.
Sometimes, you have to write just for you, and sometimes you have to create that post that you believe in, even if no one else wants to read it. Your instincts matter.
(4) Progress is obvious.
As part of my Year-42 plan, I set a goal to juggle 3 balls 50 times (50 catches, that is) without a drop. A month-and-a-half into my one-year plan, I did 57 throws. The next day, I did 135. The numbers didn't lie – I had gone from a klutz to a juggler. Even at the beginning I could see the progress, and it happened almost magically, day by day. All it took was 10 minutes a day.
As a writer, there comes a point where you're good enough to get by, and you suddenly realize that there's no map from good to great. Worse yet, you don't even know if you're moving forward. You're forced to rely on the criticism and praise of the world, and the world is fickle on a good day and downright bitchy the other 364 days of the year.
There are a million ways to quantify success, but there's another option – forget about progress. Just write. Some days, it's an act of faith, and believing is all you've got (cue the Journey playlist).
(5) The Zone finds you.
Call it the Zone, inspiration, or the Muse, but when you're a writer, it might as well be Bigfoot riding a 5-legged unicorn. Those moments are so few and far between you'll stop believing they exist at all most days.
When I'm juggling, the Zone is about as hard to find as a re-run of Law and Order on cable. Throw a few balls, and I'm back in it. When I hit 135 throws, it was like my hands were moving without me. That feeling never gets old, and I doubt it ever will.
Your creative brain is a whole lot more obstinate than the part that makes your arms go, but those moments will come, and their rarity makes them infinitely more amazing. Don't stop looking for unicorn footprints, even if everyone says you're crazy.
So, there you go.
I hope you've learned absolutely nothing about blogging from this post. I highly recommend juggling. It's cheap, it's fun, and your family probably won't disown you.
