On generosity. For your own sake.

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.


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