Hygge at the Bookstore
I finished last night's blog post around 9 p.m. and felt redeemed: I can do this.
Then I realized I had 364 more posts to go, and my confidence wavered. I checked out One Blue Sail, the blog that launched me on this journey, and found the perfect balm: a post from December 31st that described all the connections its writer had made, and the support she'd found among readers, during her own 365-day blogging project.
As Robert Moss would say: meaningful coincidences are everywhere.
When I first committed to blogging daily, I reassured myself that it would be a writing exercise—not a marketing exercise. But even that description—"a writing exercise"—conjures some fear. I'm not an aspiring writer. I'm a writer by trade. Words are my livelihood. So to bare my words in this way, so naked and fresh from the pen or the keyboard, feels reckless.
Editing has become a way of life. In social situations, I edit. Long after conversations with friends or coworkers have ended, I rehash the things I said and could've said and probably shouldn't have said.
I hate this, but I don't know how to stop. Can I ever reach a level of trust in the world where I can stop editing? Will I ever be comfortable enough to just exist without apology? It's one thing to say, "I'm going to embrace my imperfections." It's quite another to reengineer the mental mechanics that have been grinding away for three decades.
I keep seeing the word "hygge" everywhere lately. It's Danish for "cozy." I found myself needing some hygge today, so I went looking for it at the bookstore and found it on the cover of a magazine. Literally. "Hygge" was listed alongside "Papercraft," "Meditation," "Printing," and "Yoga." With topics like that, how could I not buy the magazine and take it home?
I haven't gotten to crack it open since I flipped through it at the bookstore. But seeing it on my nightstand is hygge enough for one evening. When I'm done reading it, I'll cut up its pages and make a collage. Something simple and modern and geometric. Something I can't overthink.