I wonder if there is a giant surge of blog posts at the start of the year. Like the hordes of newcomers to fitness centers after January 1st, how many people resolve to blog more in 2014? But fulfilling a resolution means creating a habit.
I just read an article on that very topic. The actual research shows that the amount of time it takes to begin doing something consistently and without thought depends, not surprisingly, on the complexity and difficulty of the activity. The easiest habits, like drinking a glass of water after lunch, formed after about three weeks. The most difficult goals could take 8-9 months to become habitual.
I'd place blogging somewhere in between. As each day passes, more people will fall off the wagon. Fewer blogs will be written. Not many people will make it the 100 days or so to make blogging a habit. As for me, I'll quit while I'm ahead and not bother to make a resolution I won't keep.
How about you? Have you resolved to write more this year? Have you seen any statistics affirming or contradicting my assumptions? Regardless, whatever your goals may be, I wish you the best of luck for 2014.
Last night I played baseball. I played baseball in a dream.
It was near the end of batting practice. I stood in shallow center field waiting for a ball, but nothing was coming my way. Then a left-handed hitter came up, so I jogged over toward shallow right field. As I ran, the fluidity of my pumping legs, the miracle of movement, amazed me as it had never done before the accident. I knew I'd been crippled, and now I was cured, but my dream self didn't ponder the details.
Suddenly, the lefty hit a choppy grounder past the second baseman. I lacked the lateral motion to get to it, but I flung out my arm anyway. Astonishingly I made the grab. I skipped forward and launched the ball toward home plate. It had been so long, but my body remembered the motion from the thousands, perhaps millions of times I had performed it in the past. The throw was off target, but did it ever fly! Mediocre though it had been, that was the most satisfying play I could remember.
The practice ended, and Mr Ritz, my high school's varsity baseball coach, stood by the backstop picking up stray balls. I jogged toward him, anxious to talk. Sobs choked my throat and blurred my vision as I approached him. "I've played baseball so many times in my dreams. It was incredible to finally do it again in real life. Thank you." The irony was lost on my dreaming mind.
Then I woke up. Then I cried; not a lot, just a few more salty drops on my already tear-stained pillow.