So here we are again, more than a year behind on the New Yorker and more than three months into the project. No ground gained, and in fact, about a month of ground lost. How to explain this sad state of affairs? Doing so requires some uncomfortable introspection. First, school ended, thereby taking away a big part of what keeps me busy and therefore gives me a sense of value. I have been struggling with my self-worth ever since stopping full-time work last August. Although on the face of it I know that being a stay-at-home mom is a very valuable thing, just knowing that a stranger isn't paying me for my contribution to something has preyed on my self-esteem, more than I would probably admit to anyone I know. I don't mean to present this as an excuse, but the lack of direction did kind of drag me down and away from the things I enjoy, including working out, reading, and writing. Since reading the New Yorker and treadmill running used to be simultaneous activities, with one gone so went the other. In the past week or so I have snapped out of it and hereby pledge to renew my commitment to the project with more fervour and intensity.
This issue sat at the bottom of my purse for weeks. When I finally did get around to reading it, the article about the Chinese personality Han Han had the greatest impact. The dating services article was interesting, but Han was way more thought-provoking. How had he dared and succeeded to make his name as a creative and political force in a country as repressive as China? And what holds me back from making an effort to put my creative ideas out there, when I live in one of the most open and permissive societies in the world?
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