I realized today that I take my writing self for granted. I expect the writer in me to perform well, to execute at a high level, to do the job.
Meanwhile I giggle like a school girl when I manage to make sounds that remotely resemble music. I glow when I doodle something pretty. I give myself lots of room to experiment and play when it comes to anything and all else other than writing.
To my writing self: I am so sorry. You’re that friend that shows up and helps me figure shit out. You’re the one I blame when shit can’t be fixed or history rewritten. I always assume that you’ll be back, that you’ll come through. I am so sorry.
I promise to treat you with more respect, with more love, with more generosity.
Now please help me finish.