Monday Blues… But Isn’t Blue A Pretty Color?

Like most people, I hate Mondays. But at the same time, they signify something. The first day of a new week, the first day you go back to work or school, the first day of the rest of your life. Everyone knows that person who has dieted, gotten off track and said, “I’ll start again on Monday.” Maybe you have been that person.

My New Year’s Resolution this year was to form new, better habits. I’d spend a week or more doing something I should be doing until it becomes a habit, like writing every day, emptying the dishwasher in the morning, or even taking a shower before getting on the computer in the morning. Then once that became a habit, I’d start a new one.

Like most resolutions, I failed. But that doesn’t mean it’s over. We’re constantly changing, constantly bettering ourselves. I haven’t written much on my stories this year, but two days ago I opened one I haven’t looked at in a while and so far I’ve added 891 words to it. It’s not 500 words a day or anything, but if I write today, that will be three days in a row.

Life is full of Mondays. Every Monday is a fresh start. Every day is a fresh start. You decide what’s a fresh start. For many people, being productive and achieving your goals is hard. Maybe it’s depression, or lifelong bad habits, or just life getting in the way. Just take it a step at a time, any progress is better than no progress.

Sometimes it’s hard to remember your goals or why you wanted them. Growing up, I wanted to be a million different things. I wanted to be an artist (what kid didn’t want to be an artist?), a librarian, I wanted to work with animals and eventually narrowed it down to horse trainer. Writer was never even in my thoughts, even when I started my first novel at thirteen.

When I was finally looking at colleges, I had written tens of thousands of words on several novels and novel-length stories. One day it just clicked. But somehow that’s when I lost it. I was living through my writing and then I got a life in college. I had my first relationship at nineteen and realized love wasn’t anything like how I was writing it.

I’ve been writing since, but it’s never felt like the magic of writing in a notebook in my room, page after page, my thoughts going faster than my pen. My first novel was 400 handwritten pages over half a dozen notebooks and so ridiculously terrible and plot-less.

I don’t know if getting into the habit of writing every day will get that back, but I guess it’s worth a try.

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