Better a broken promise than none at all.

Mark Twain

It amazes me how life works. How things happen. Late last Thursday night, after making a promise to turn in the first pages of my manuscript the following day, I wrote the following words. The intention was to post them the next day, Friday, to explain how I was, well, full of it. I climbed into bed that night feeling disappointed in myself. I set my alarm for 4:30am just in case. Just in case I head a change of heart in the morning.

Tail between my legs, I write these words. Yesterday, with the help of a wise man, I came close to preaching.

I made an announcement – to you, to me – that I would surrender the first one hundred pages of my current manuscript. I admitted that the prospect of so doing is scary, but I stated, with blustery confidence, that I would do it.

And here we are. In the throes of today. And I have not done it. I have not relinquished that first chunk of my next story as promised. And guess what? I’m not going to.

Almost as soon as I broadcast my intentions yesterday, the doubts nestled into the nooks of my mind. A question snaked through my soul throughout the soggy Manhattan day: Is it time? And, finally, an answer emerged on the surface: Not quite.

Time for honesty: I feel crappy about saying one thing and doing another. I do. I can’t help it. I made a promise and then, promptly, I broke it. And here I am, at my loyal desk, broken pieces in hand, maturing manuscript scattered around me. Surrounded by pages that whisper something, something soothing, something sage: Soon.

And I am left, as I often am, asking why. Why do I do this to myself repeatedly? Why do I make fervent promises and proclamations that I then do not keep? Why do I consistently set myself up for disappointment, for guilt, for self-criticism?

I do this because it’s what I do. It’s who I am.

I do this because I am human. Caught in a land of gray between the Ideal and the Real.

I do this because life without goals, without promises, even the broken kind, is not a good life in my estimation.

So I will keep preaching and promising. I will keep trying and failing, achieving and falling short. I will keep on.

The alarm sounded Friday morning at 4:30am. For a few moments, I stayed there, in my warm bed, swaddled in my duvet and my doubt, but then. I shot up. I’m going to do it, I thought to myself.

At my desk, coffee in hand, I slid back into my fictional word. I wrote new words. I cut old words. I worked hard. Before taking a break to whisk Toddler to school, I jotted a quick post for this blog – about how this process, this life, this, is not pretty. As I wrote those words, I had no true sense of whether I would meet my deadline.

I dropped my sweet girl at school and raced home. And back in. Into this world I have come to dream about. I kept going, watching the clock tick. I was due to meet my agent for lunch at 1pm. At 1pm, I was still editing the last page and emailed her to say I’d be a bit late. At 1:07pm, I simultaneously hit print and emailed her a copy of the first 111 pages. When that last page printed, I threw a rubber band around the warm stack of white and I ran.

1:15pm. Lunch. By the time I arrive, my agent has skimmed the first couple chapters. She uses this word: gorgeous.

We sit, two women with a passion for good stories, and we talk. About the seeds of my story. About life. We brainstorm about where my characters will go. How they will dance with one another.

There are really rough spots, I tell her about the pages I have surrendered. I feel quite exposed. And she tells me this is okay. I tell myself this is okay. Two hours later, we part ways. On a corner of Amsterdam Avenue, I stand there, alone, free of my pages, and smile. I have done it. There is a long way to go, but I am on my way.

I think back to that night before when I was so confident I wouldn’t do it. And I realize something. Something that far transcends a dilemma faced by one rookie author. I realize that in allowing myself to break my promise, in allowing myself to fail, I was in fact allowing myself to keep my promise, to succeed.

And so. I believe that Mr. Twain was right on. In this life, it is better that we make promises, fashion goals, and dream big. Sometimes, we will break these promises. Sure. Sometimes, we will fail to meet these goals. Absolutely. Sometimes, our dreams will not come true. You bet.

This is life.

But sometimes, just by promising, by reaching, by dreaming, by loosening psychic reigns, by acknowledging who it is we are – fumbling and bumbling human beings – we will surprise ourselves.

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Do you agree that a broken promise is better than none at all? Is there a vast difference between promises that are broken intentionally and those that just can’t – because of circumstance – be met? Have you ever cut yourself some slack, allowed yourself to fail, and then surprised yourself with success?