if only there were more hours in the day.

I wonder if I’d be better at writing these posts if I started earlier. It’s not that I don’t think of doing that, it’s just that it occurs to me, I freak at subject matter, and then I wait.

And I wait. And I wait. And I wait.

I almost (again) forgot to write this.

I read Nina LaCour’s We Are Okay in one sitting. I worked on a content plan. I did some social media stuffs. I watched another episode of Westworld (we’re getting so close to the end! I can’t deal!). I thought about how I have a story to tell, but am afraid to write it down.

I just gotta. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve thrown caution to the wind and just went ahead and did something. I read somewhere that Augusten Burroughs wrote one of his books in a week. It takes me three hours to write a page sometimes, so I don’t think I have that talent. But like, I write these shitty little tidbits every day, so it’s not that I can’t. It’s just that I’m afraid of the outcome.

I wrote a 20-page sample once for a grad school that I did not get into. I worked hard on that thing and didn’t get in. Does it matter? Maybe not. Should it matter? Probably not. I just remember that feeling of being crushed, thoroughly. It’s not a time I look back on fondly, and the thought of experiencing it over and over again? ehhh.

Some would look at this and say that writerly things, perhaps, are not what I’m meant for. That implies, I guess, that I believe in purpose and that people are meant for certain things.


I just have to. I just don’t want it to fail. I don’t want to be the failure. (although that is something I could put on my LinkedIn profile that no one would expect. Hm.)

Have a good night, y’all. Be kind to yourselves.

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