Ever since I purchased my own long-coveted laptop last week, I've noticed an increase in my "screen time." The only thing that kept me from spending all day computer-side was the discomfort of my chair at the desk. I absolutely wanted a laptop for the sheer comfort and inevitable ease of writing that would ensue. Enter my confession: yesterday, save a few leisurely hours reading Plath before bed, all of my recreational domestic time was spent in front of my computer or television. I found my ass sore and soul even more so. Though there are aspects of computer time that absolutely do feed me, I certainly know when too much of a good thing becomes exactly that.

In an effort to correct this, I made a schedule for today that would include a quiet morning with book and journal, a walk/run, some structured (and TIMED) computer work, a brow wax, and a trip to my local coffee shop to work on writing my articles. So this morning, as I sat to this time with myself, I had a small realization. I was sitting there, brimming with inspiration and enigmatic sympathy while studying Plath's journals (I have this new system upon which her mentioning a poem makes me go to her anthology and look it up, read it, and look up any muses she may have used (this a.m. I read a poem she wrote about Rousseau's "The Dream" ), it's so satisfying), a nuanced version of how I define success came to me.


Every human has to define for themselves what it means to be successful. I suppose on some level I do truly define it as making some sort of living off of art. Besides personal and professional validation, being published not only means money but it also ensures that my work will live beyond my lifetime. Because today I discovered that true success for Candace Morris is to do for others what Plath (and others) has done for me.