When Good Is Enough: 2022 Year-End Review
New Year’s Day has always felt hollow to me.
January 1 is not, to my knowledge, associated with the start of crop planting or harvesting in any part of the world. Nor does it mark the start of Spring and the new life seen in plants and trees. It’s not even the start of Winter, thus it doesn’t mark the start of days lengthening again (that’d be the Solstice).
New Year’s Day is a somewhat arbitrary day because the world’s most prevalent calendar is a somewhat arbitrary calendar; largely disassociated with any of the celestial phenomena that we’ve historically used to track the passing of time.
And yet…
The wistful desire to think through the year and the lessons learned and the growing pains afflicts me as well. The nostalgic sense of wonder and reflection—they are not foreign to me. Thus, since I cannot change the calendar, I will submit to its declaration that today is the last day of the year.
So let me recap.
What I’ve Read
I entered 2022 with the goal of reading 20 books. For reasons I do not fully understand and cannot clearly communicate to you, I do not include picture books, books of the Bible, devotional guides, or poetry chap-books. I also do not count unpublished books I’ve read for work. I think it’s because that feels too easy, and I could easily inflate the numbers.
That said, I came one book short of my goal with 19 books read.
The Last Wish, Sword of Destiny, Season of Storms, Blood of Elves, and Time of Contempt by Andrzej Sapkowski. When functioning as a series of somewhat disjointed short story collections, the Witcher books were quite enjoyable to me. However, as the series went on, I began to loathe the long-winded writing style of Sapkowski. I started the year intending to read all eight books about Geralt, but by the time I finished Time of Contempt, I had little more than that for these books. A page-and-a-half describing a messenger’s ability to sit on a horse didn’t help. While the books deal heavily with themes of free will vs. determinism, and what it means to be good in a very dangerous and bleak world, I found its outlook to be generally far too bleak for my tastes. It’s hard to care if the good guys save the world when the world is so thoroughly un-worthy of being saved.
Jurassic Park and The Lost World by Michael Crichton. While I’d read Jurassic Park once over a decade ago, I knew it was time to revisit the book and finally take on the sequel when my older son began to grow obsessed with dinosaurs. The first book absolutely holds up, and I’m very glad I re-read it. The second felt wonky and less-well-paced, and I didn’t enjoy the ret-conning of plot points that were significant in the first book, as the changes didn’t feel that well thought out. The first addresses a classic sci-fi question, asking us to reconsider our innate desire to master nature. The second felt like it was trying to ask questions about societal collapse, and whether beneficial behavior and symbiotic relationships can be inherited or must be learned… but I didn’t feel dinosaurs were an adequate tool for the job.
Save the Cat! Writes a Novel by Jessica Brody. This is the only non-fiction book that I managed to finish this year, but man was it a good one. It re-ignited my passion for writing novels, helping me see that I maybe don’t want to pursue PBs right now. Although I’ve read enough books to have an innate sense of what should happen in a book to feel satisfying, having a clear outline and terms to put with all the story beats has been so helpful. If you read this, beware of the spoilers it contains for other books.
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. Another book I re-read to remind myself why I loved it. My senior thesis examined how revenge turns men into monsters, and relied heavily on this novel and The Count of Monte Cristo. In a world still recovering from a global pandemic, this 200-year-old novel has much to teach us about the dangers of loneliness and our need for connection with one another.
Annihilation, Authority, and Acceptance by Jeff VanderMeer. When I saw the movie Annihilation, I did not know it was based on a book. Since learning that fact, I had been desperate to read the book, so enthralled by the movie was I. The eponymous book did not disappoint, and offered one of the most surreal and bizarre and enjoyable reading experiences of my year. It perfectly captured a kind of existential horror as it grappled with questions of human significance in a vast and incomprehensible universe. Sadly, the second and third books were far less enjoyable to me, and by the end of the trilogy, the ambiguity which started as a thematic tool began to feel like a lack of direction.
The Boys Are Back in Town by Christopher Golden. This book, while far from perfect, was a true thriller, and difficult to put down. In general, the book was well paced, but the big reveal at the end felt mildly underwhelming, and there were a few tiny plot-holes that nagged at my suspension of disbelief. I would have loved a more comprehensive arc for the primary protagonist, but the idea of a coming of age story told through the eyes of one who has already come of age is well executed, and Golden handles the theme of responsibility and accountability for the choices made in youth competently enough.
The Hope of Elephants by Amanda Rawson Hill. This book is wholly different from anything else I’ve read this year, and refreshingly different from the kind of fiction I usually go for. It’s a middle-grade novel-in-verse, with a first person perspective, written in present tense, dealing with a very realistic plot. To be frank, I never would have read it had I not won a copy from the author through a limerick contest on Twitter. Even so, I’m thrilled that I did read this book, because it is heartwarming and beautiful. I loved what it had to say about the importance of family and faith in navigating difficult times.
Dune by Frank Herbert. I see now why some have said that Frank Herbert is the Tolkien of Science Fiction. Every little detail and nuance of the fictional cultures described in Herbert’s magnum opus feels perfectly correct, yet none feels unnaturally planned out. This book, to me, felt particularly dense, and yet never like a chore to get through. The themes are less straightforward, in my opinion, than other books I’ve read, but looking at the political, religious, economic, and ecological reasons behind social inequality and the warfare, betrayal, and strife such inequality brings is as important now as it was when Dune first hit bookshelves.
New Spring by Robert Jordan. Especially in the wake of the complete disaster and utter disappointment of Amazon Prime’s The Wheel of Time TV show, I was yearning for a return to the world Robert Jordan so masterfully brought to life in his 14-book sprawling fantasy saga. This book was, admittedly, a bit of a let down. I had been saving it, building it up in my head, assuming it would whisk me away on an adventure like The Eye of the World did when I read it in 2014. While New Spring felt comfortable and enjoyable, it lacked much of the charm and intrigue the main series possessed in spades. Thematically, it failed to break new ground, mostly exploring the power of hope to motivate in hard times, and touching on the use and abuse of power, though not particularly deftly. I’m glad I read it, but it didn’t feel particularly important, nor did it add much to the world.
Red Rising, Golden Son, and Morning Star by Pierce Brown. While the first book in this trilogy-turned-series felt a tad derivative, the three novels together function as a very intriguing look at class struggles, inequality, found-family, and what it means to bring oppressors to justice, not just to their knees. The narrative is gripping and the growth experienced by virtually all the major characters made each major victory and loss feel satisfying and impactful. These books made losing sleep easy as they kept begging me to read just one chapter more.
What I’ve Done
At the start of the year, I had no real clue what my professional life would look like. I accepted a job at a used book store, and fell in love with the process of helping old books find new life. While the job was nearly perfect for me, the hours and the pay made it difficult to succeed as a husband and father.
While I worked there, I started a writing and editing business and began accepting contracts from various clients.
I confessed to my wife a secret I told myself I’d take to my grave; I experienced radical forgiveness.
I fell more in love with the woman I married.
I “graduated” from a recovery program.
I began copywriting and copyediting for different Christian ministries, and took on a managerial role for a children’s ministry content site.
I wrote a new poem every day in April.
I wrote dozens of limericks and launched a weekly hashtag event on Twitter encouraging others to do the same.
I welcomed a new son into the world and mostly potty-trained the first (with help from his mom, of course. None of our parenting is a solo act.)
I applied for a few full-time positions I feel I could thrive in. None so far have panned out.
I stopped serving in kids ministry (though I have intentions to return next year).
I learned to fix a broken sprinkler head.
I cleaned my gutters.
I struggled to feel productive and worthy no matter how hard I worked.
What I’ve Learned
Productivity has no units. It can’t be measured in hours, dollars, or internet clout.
As of writing this, I’m pretty much entirely self-employed. I have a few contracts that are managed by a third party talent recruiting company, so you could probably say that I’m technically their employee, but as far as all my day to day work, it’s on me to figure out what my tasks are, manage the time they take me, communicate their completion, and make sure I invoice people to get paid.
As a result, the hours I work may vary between 30 and 60 in any given week, but it feels like I’m working way more than one full-time job.
On top of this, I have many personal goals that I am consistently pursuing (albeit in a highly variable way). I want to produce a well-written, helpful blog post once a week. I want to work out at least 4 times a week. I want to cook healthy dinners for my family 5 nights a week. I want to keep up with housework and yard work. I want to be present for my kids and engage them in meaningful play and diligent discipleship. I want to support my wife and be emotionally available to her. I want to be a good neighbor who helps in myriad ways whenever needed.
I want to finish my novels and query agents to see if I can get them published. I want to polish my children’s books for the same purpose.
But I also want time to rest, relax, and veg out with a video game, TV, or movie. I want to read dozens of books and think deeply about them. I want to go places with friends and laugh at stupid old inside jokes.
I don’t think I have time to accomplish all of that as often as I tell myself I must. If I cannot redefine what it means to be productive, I will kill myself trying to accomplish more and more. And what’s worse, I’ll die feeling a failure for all I didn’t manage to get done.
While looking for different job opportunities, I found something that seemed it could be a good fit, but something on the company website made me pause. It said something to the effect of “Good enough is never good enough.”
Now of course, I understand the sentiment: We don’t phone things in. Nothing we do is half-assed. We never settle for something inferior. I don’t disagree with the idea that everyone should put forth their best effort in everything they do.
But I believe words have meaning, and ignoring their meaning to sound clever isn’t helpful. Good enough, by definition, should be good enough. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with doing a job well and letting it be finished. Perfectionism isn’t a virtue, and excellence has warped to become corporate jargon that means perfection, but we aren’t comfortable saying that out loud.
As this year has proceeded, I’ve found many of my goals slipping away from me. Blog posts became less consistent. Early morning gym visits petered out. My yard is still covered in leaves that need to be raked.
Something had to give, and I have spent too much time secretly hating myself for not getting enough done. For feeling like good enough isn’t good enough.
When God himself created the world, he looked at each bird and fish and rock and star and cow and blade of grass and declared it good. When the rich young ruler came to Jesus and called him “good teacher,” the Messiah hinted at his deity by reminding the seeker that God alone is good.
My dear readers, good doesn’t mean crappy. It doesn’t mean lazy. It doesn’t mean shoddy. It doesn’t mean partial, unsatisfactory, substandard, or inferior.
This year I’ve learned that I can choose to do less, and that doesn’t make me less. I’ve learned to shoot for good and let that be enough.
