As often happens during the course of a Seattle winter, my head collapses in on itself and I do lots of self-reflective thinking about me me me. Summers are for being stupid. Winters are for turning your brain inside out and poking at the gooey pink bits.

One of the thoughts I’ve been mulling over is this: what kinds of writing are good for me. Like anything else, there are immediate gratifications (easy, fun, etc) and then there are the long-term goals and pay-offs (career advancement, personal development, skill enhancement). Not surprisingly, some of the writing that’s the most immediately gratifying isn’t necessarily the stuff that’s actually good for me.

It’s like food: no one’s going to argue that caramel doesn’t taste better than kale. But it’s undeniable that if you subsist off of caramel (even really good caramel) you will rot your teeth out. Certain kinds of writing can be like that for me. I love doing them, but on a certain level it’s because they appeal to my most vapid, lazy impulses — definitely not the stuff that dreams and aspirations are built upon.

As clarification, this doesn’t mean I think my writing should be more serious. I’ve always been a humor writer. It’s just that I’m starting to take my writing more seriously. It’s a strange sensation.