My Throw-Away Year

With every changing of the clock and the calendar, I am born anew. A January baby ushered swift into the world, always on the promise: This will be my year.

{ This will be the year I will write a play. }

{ This will be the year I will fall in love. }

{ This will be the year I do everything right. }

I sign these oaths on the first day of the year, and I spend the next 364 holding my breath and waiting. I have, you see, an unhealthy attachment to right. The right job, the right man, the right project. I won't make mistakes, I won't waste my time, and I won't be anyone's fool.

My years tend to flounder. I spend my days waiting instead of chasing, holding out for a sign or a lottery ticket. I'm never sure what's right, and I'm so afraid to be wrong. I'd ask a question, but I'd rather wait until I have the answer.

This year, I'm giving myself permission to be wrong.

This year, I want to work on the wrong projects. This year, I want to follow the wrong leads. This year, I want to make bad art, I want to try things I’ll hate, I want to learn things I’ll never need to know. And when the man I love says I need more time, I want to waste the whole year waiting.

This is my throw-away year. This is the year for learning, and growing, and for being a goddamn fool. This is the year for fucking up, and letting in, and breathing out, and marching on. This year, I don't need any answers.

But I do have some questions.