Do I Practice What I Preach? Or Just Preach?

A little case of the whiffles made me reassess my writing persona.

Yesterday, I had a bad day. Not an awful day, but one that challenged the way I like to appear to my readers.

I got off to a good start by jotting down the beginning of my daily article before I headed out for a physical therapy appointment. I’ve been working hard, as I noted here, to overcome a balance issue. Michelle gave me a thumbs up on her metrics, even though I haven’t seen much progress.

I took it as a win, though. I’ve only been at the new regime for a week. Score one for my optimism, right?

I headed home, intending to walk, but decided against trudging up and down the two hills in the drizzle, even though I could have scratched the need to go to the gym later. Taking the pass on the exercise, I made a list of the household chores I’d take care of after I got home and finished my article. Then, later in the day, I’d get back to editing my novel, so I could get that published before the end of the year. Another gold star for productivity. Yay me. This how I want the world to see me. Perhaps doddering on my cane in public, but still killing it in terms of getting things done and not letting the little things get me down. And grateful as hell for everything else.

But then, I hit a wall as I began working on my article. I don’t usually have trouble getting words out, once I decide on a topic. I had the outline in my head, but I was typing through sludge. An hour went by and I had a mere paragraph done. Given the early start with my coffee, I should have had it published by then.

I decided to stretch out on my bed as my knee was twingy. Two hours later, I woke up with my laptop on my face.

When I looked at the clock, a jolt of adrenalin barely moved me to sit up and get to work. Through my fog, I clicked on Hulu on my computer to catch up on the news. Yesterday, we had impeachment hearings, and as a good citizen, I should keep abreast I told myself.

Forty-five minutes passed, and I woke up to a blank screen. I’d accidentally turned over in my sleep and unplugged the power dohicky. My old MacBook Pro was as dead as I felt.

That’s when the blues set in to a chorus of Why was my life so hard?

Mid-afternoon and I’d accomplished nothing. My apartment was a mess, and my supernatural suspense novel that I loved was still hanging out in space somewhere, waiting for my final edits. Why was my life so hard, I whined to my dusty digs.

Somehow, I scratched the ending to my article, did what I do to circulate it so readers would see it before the cut off for earnings for the day, and pulled up the covers of self-loathing and went back to sleep.

When I woke up this time at midnight, with the frozen chicken breast I’d taken out of the freezer for my dinner leaking all over the counter, it occurred to me that I’d been sick.

You’d think I’d never been under the weather before, the way I lashed myself to my computer to try to squeeze out an essay when every cell in my body was pleading for rest.

Would I have advised you to ignore your flagging immune system to the point where it opened the door to all the negativity in the universe, just to meet your goal? Big deal, I’d say. So you want to be able to say you’ve published an article a day. But at what cost?

That’s what I’d say to you. To me? Get off that bed, you lazy slug and finish your work. That’s the screed I beat myself with, so loud, I couldn’t or refused to hear the message that I was unwell. Just a little. Nothing that required medical intervention.

The neighbors weren’t coming to check on me; no paramedics and the fire department barging in with life-saving equipment. I think I’d know if I was that sick. in my desire to succeed, I’d forgotten I was probably having a reaction to a severe attack of allergies the day before.

And at my age, I should know better.

Which leads me to a favorite story of mine.

A man who wanted to give up sugar, so he crawled his way up the mountain and kneeled at the foot of the guru.

Master, he said. Please, will you show me how to give up sugar.

Certainly, my son, said the wise man. Come back in three weeks.

Three weeks later, the guy crawls back up the mountain and the master says, now we can begin.

But master, he says. Why did you make me wait three weeks?

The wise man held up his finger. First, I had to give up sugar.

So that’s me this morning, thinking about the articles I write. I don’t really have a niche. I write about food, my family, my experience on this platform. And sometimes, I find myself giving what we call life lessons. Little snippets from my life that taught me something about myself or the way the world works.

Now, after yesterday’s backslide, I thought, what was I doing telling people to respect your body and ignore perfectionism? I know as well as anyone that when you’re body is run down, the negativity and self-criticsim likes to come out to play. So what’s up with me being a total jerk to myself yesterday? Haven’t I given up sugar yet?

Well, in real life, no, but that’s another problem. But this morning was a new day. However, when I sat down to write, after assuring myself I was alive and well, I realized I wasn’t as confident as usual. My battle with my inner critic had taken a toll. As it will. I won’t go into chapter and verse on the number of flaws I found when I began that merry-go-round, but I do know by now it’s a useless enterprise. Once you start, the game is rigged.

One thing I have learned about our inner critics is that we all have one. If you stand on shaky ground as far as your mental health, your ego, your self-image is concerned, you might think you’re the only one who suffers from imposter syndrome or is weighed down with doubt and insecurity. But sorry, it’s standard equipment off the showroom floor. You don’t have to pay extra for the resident self-doubter.

If you don’t believe me, watch sports. Especially keep your eye on the GOATs. (Greatest Of All Time). Every sport has one or two or a dozen, depending on the commentator and sponsor. But these individuals are known for their poise under pressure, their unshakeable confidence in facing any opponent. Until they muff the ball.

Then watch them on the sidelines. From the contortions on their faces, you know how they’re tearing into themselves. If you don’t like sports, make that every CEO, politician, celebrity, or guru you put up on a pedestal.

So I’ll let that little aside sit there because it’s how I know about the inner critic and what brings it to life. For me, for you, and every other mother-loving one of us. There would be no Greek tragedies, Shakespeare masterpieces, or daytime soap operas without it.

Yeah, and what was I doing letting mine out of the box? I’m human. That’s what I allowed myself when I went over the day I had yesterday and realized what I’d put myself through.

I needed to be a perfectionist about publishing every day, and that set the ball rolling.

But what does that have to do with my readers? I asked myself if I was true to the life lessons I preached. Was I giving the impression that I have licked all my battles and I never have a bad day? I never drop the ball? I never lose the battle with self-doubt and the sense I’m a failure?

I checked to see if I’d given up sugar. If, when I talked about my perspective on life, I wasn’t just spouting platitudes but talking from my own experience. I hope I never give that impression just because I’ve learned to let go of what I can’t have instead of yearning for the impossible, or some other hard lesson from my life.

I hope I don’t convey that I’m all so wise and brilliant that I don’t have bad days. That I’ve beaten my demons to bloody pulps and reside on mountain tops with the other gods and goddesses.

How I wish.

I’ve always said if we’re lucky we’ll live a long life. Because it takes a long life to work out our issues. And that’s work we do until we’re done and dusted with life.

I speak a lot about being grateful. And this morning, I can tell you this about myself. I recall a time when a bout of self-criticism could send me to a therapist. No joke. Now, I can recognize the detour I’m taking and start turning the ship around. It may not happen in an instant, but it doesn’t take days, weeks, or months. You may know what I mean. So I take that as a win.

Putting your thoughts and life experiences out in the world is a dicey exercise. You’re assuming you’re an authority. To the extent my age has given me an advantage in this area (everyone’s learned something by this age), I wear the hat lightly. I know how quickly ego and pride can erode humility. And about confidence that I’ve won a battle with myself? I’ve written before how things can turn to sh*t just when you think you have it all together.

So I do what I can in “giving up sugar.” And when I’m “giving advice,” I do my best to make sure I’ve been there. Do I practice what I preach? First of all, I try not to preach. I offer myself as an example of what I believe works in life.

And I’ll give you a glimpse into my day from time to time so you can see how it’s going or how it’s not. It helps me stay honest.

I’m an editor and writer on Medium with Top Writer status. I’m also an editor for the publication, Rogues Gallery. I’ve published 55 titles on Amazon and edit for private clients. If you’d like to hire me as your editor for fiction, non-fiction, or business writing, please contact me here. If you’d like to read more of my work on Medium, click here to sign up for my newsletter. I’ll make sure you don’t miss a word. Thank you for reading.