We love round numbers.
Ten. Fifty. One hundred. Two hundred.
I love them too.
Which is why I am taking this morning to reflect on my two hundredth blog entry.
I wrote the first one on January 20th, 2017, a little over eight months ago.
At the time, the snow was on the ground, and I had just finished listening to a book by Seth Godin, where he put forth the intriguing proposition, that the idea of writer’s block, is false and simply doesn’t exist.
He asserted that there is a difference. A somewhat subtle difference between the amateur writer and the professional one. The pro, she writes, and treats her work as a job. A commitment she dares not break.
She takes the time to write daily. She invests her time in digging ditches.
She sits down. He thinks. She writes.
To the amateur however, writing becomes a motivational rollercoaster ride, that swings their resolve back and forth, based on their mood, and far too many other reasons to list here.
Two hundred entries.
That’s a lot of ditches.
That’s a lot of coffees.
A lot of early mornings.
That’s a lot of frogs.
I am not mentioning any of this to boast in any way or to receive unwarranted praise. I point it out, simply to illustrate that Seth Godin was right.
A writer faces two real possibilities. One. She can write well, or he can write badly. In case you are wondering, it is always better to write well. But both come from the same well.
There is a third possibility.
The writer can insist and imprison themselves in the idea of a writer’s block, write nothing, and by their inactivity, wipe themselves out of existence.
It’s not easy. It’s not easy digging ditches.
There are days, where I have nothing in my mind and I simply face the struggle and force it out. There are days, when I don’t want to write, let alone post any of it, but I had made a commitment to myself, to share everything, no matter what, warts and all.
If you are reading this, and you must be, because how else are these words reading themselves?
If you are reading this, I hope from the bottom of my heart that you figure out what brings meaning to your life. I hope you figure out the things that you’ve neglected, or pushed to the side, while you got busy with other matters.
I hope you reawaken your sense of wonder.
I hope you choose not to go to the grave with your song still in you.
Dig some ditches.
Dig only one shovel full at a time.
Dig badly. Dig well.
Dig with a smile, or with a frown. Dig grumbling and swearing under your breath, or with the angels serenading every single drop of sweat.
Dig because you said you would.
Dig because you can.
Dig because you know, as well as I know, that there is nothing else like it. There is nothing else like it that makes you feel alive.
We were born to live. We were not created merely to exist.
I hope you find your two hundredth shovel full and I hope it comes soon.
I also hope you drop me a little note, and tell me all about it.
So, go dig something.
Go make a ruckus.
