And, in the end, the love you take

Today is the last day of November.  That means I made it.

I'm not sure how I feel.

I'm proud that I finished NaBloPoMo.  I'm proud that I wrote every day.  I feel stronger, better, more disciplined, more willing to write.

I worry that maybe I cheated a little.  That some of my posts weren't really very good.  That I phoned it in from time to time, dashed off something quick, didn't really put in the work.  To some extent I regret those days.  I know I could have done more, done better with those posts.  Better for myself, better for my craft.  I could have gotten further, made something more, moved farther into it.

And also not.

Also, it was good for me to put  posts out there that weren't always great.  Weren't polished.  Weren't finished.  Didn't feel important.  It was good for me to put those posts out there and have it be okay.

Sometimes, I get so caught up in my good ideas that I'm afraid of my not good ideas. I get so caught up in the possibilities associated with greatness that I forget about what is good.  I try to write something good instead of just trying to write.  Instead of just writing.

You never know where greatness is going to appear.  You never know what words will lead you somewhere you didn't expect.  You never know which words will be the ones someone else needs to hear.

All you have to give is who you are.  So you have to give it.  Even when it doesn't feel like anything special.

Even when I don't feel like I'm anything special.

I am.

I'm tired of giving myself permission not to write.  I'm tired of giving myself permission not to try too hard at anything in my life.  I don't need to be let off the hook anymore.  I need to be on the hook.

I don't know if I'm going to write tomorrow.

We'll see.