So. It's November again.
Last year, I decided to do NaBloPoMo approximately 5 minutes before I started doing it. I had a jolt telling me to do it, and a downpour of resistance following. I knew in my heart it was the right thing to do.
And it was. I did some of the most amazing writing of my life during that month. I wrote every day, without fail, and it felt good. Really good. The more I wrote, the less scary it was, the more free I felt to write.
So, it worked. But it didn't. Because it didn't last. Just like I was afraid of, it didn't change anything. When the month ended, I stopped writing again.
So this year, when I saw the conversation start, I thought, Well, what's the point?
What's the point. This is a question I ask myself a lot. And it's a question that I've been trying to get away from.
Because the point is to do it, of course. The point is to write. The point is that I'm a writer, and writer's gotta write, yo. That's it. That's the whole point. Anything else that comes from it is outside of my control, and that's okay.
And once again, of course, that thought is terrifying.
Because I really, really want to be appreciated. I want to be congratulated. I want to be admired. I want to be good.
And I know, I KNOW, that that's exactly how I get in my own way. That's where the fear comes from and the anger and the silence. That's what gets in the way of the words.
So, once again, here I am, starting again, writing, trusting the words. It's all I can do.
And maybe this time, it will be enough.