Greetings, writers—
Although some call this Dead Week, “a time when nothing counts, and when nothing is quite real” and when no one expects you to do anything, I think it’s the perfect time to reflect on what came before (who am I kidding, I never do that) and make plans for the year ahead. This I do enthusiastically, although I think it’s really more like I make hopes. I hope that I will be more productive, keep my kitchen cleaner, and live life with more…avidity. Or something.
Earlier this morning I listened to a meditation cutely called “Intention Setting is Not New-Age Goo,” and while it broke no new ground, it did jibe with what I’ve been idly thinking about over the past two days, knowing that I’d have to write another Substack, and that it would be the last one of 2023.
Bear with me now, as I reach deep into the past for our subject.
When my children were very small, I used to host a giant Sunday afternoon party, for which I would make a bunch of soup and a set list: I’d send out the chords and lyrics for three songs, and then everyone would show up with their instruments and maybe some more soup, and we would eat and play the three songs—badly, loudly, wonderfully. I remember learning “Dead Flowers” and “Hobo’s Lament”; a search of my ancient Yahoo email revealed we also did “Tennessee Whiskey” by George Jones and “Hillbilly Fever” by Little Jimmy Dickens.
I like old country music as much as the next girl who spent formative years in the Midwest, but what I really like is singing with a bunch of people, and my level of musicianship is such that I can only play along and harmonize if we’re working with what a friend of mine, who is an actual musician, calls “farmer chords.” (I hadn’t heard the term, but I knew instantly what he meant—C, G, D, maybe an F or an A in there for kicks, and when he said it I felt shame in my heart because they’re basically the only chords I know.)
I loved this party, and I thought it would be a thing I’d do forever. Maybe I’d start calling it Soup & Song, and maybe I’d make t-shirts; someone could design a nice logo for the front, and on the back it would say, “Enthusiasm is the only talent required.”
But I did not keep throwing the party. We had a July 4th blow-out, and then we moved on. Life was already so busy.
A few years later, we were at a Christmas party, and my elder daughter, who was in first grade by then, decided that she wanted to sing “On My Honor,” which is a Girl Scout song my mom used to make me sing for her dinner guests if I resisted playing the violin. (My mother was wonderful—not the Dance Mom this makes her sound like.) I was against the idea, but she saw the impromptu talent show happening, and she wanted to participate.
So she made me go to the front of the room with her, and then she performed the song, standing rigidly stock-still, hitting not a single right note, her tiny face stony and fierce.
Do I confess the terrible thing now? That I hadn’t wanted her to sing because I knew it wouldn’t be good? Yes. And to admit this makes me feel kind of monstrous. But watching her do it, in front of all those people she barely knew, I was so insanely, painfully proud of her. Because since when does not having great talent for something constitute a reason to not do it if you want to goddamn do it? Never, I thought. Never.
Enthusiasm is the only talent required, remember? (Although my daughter didn’t look enthusiastic so much as furiously determined.1 )
I spent much of my younger life not doing things because I didn’t think I was good enough, and I would just like to remind everyone that this is bullshit. I’ve said this before and I will say it forever: don’t prejudge yourself. You don’t know if you’re good or not—at writing, at singing, at being delightful at parties. And when it comes to writing, even the gate-keepers don’t know if you’re good or not. (For proof of this, read a funny piece about how The New Yorker rejected a short story it had already published.)
What these dusty old stories of mine are supposed to illustrate is that Enthusiasm and Determination are where it’s at. That’s what I thought about when I was listening to that meditation—setting an intention to be determined and enthusiastic. Because one has to do the work of living and creating and finding meaning, so one might as well try to enjoy the hell out of it.
In 2024, I wish you love and peace and determination and avidity.
Yours,
Emily
PS: Oh, right, your writing prompt: Write down some intentions. Make a few resolutions. And if you don’t keep a journal, now is a great time to start.
In fairness I must note that she has gotten much better at singing in the years since.