I failed


I sat down to write a blog post about the noise in my head. I wrote it, didn’t really liked it, thought about it for a second and then deleted it because I didn’t just want to put something up for the sake of posting.

Then I wrote another about focusing on doing just two things that I enjoy instead of trying to start a million hobbies. But the writing inspiration wained and I needed to step away.

I wrote tonight, but nothing really good. Nothing worth publishing, at least not in this state.

I am trying to learn to accept that that is the true beauty of creating. Doing it over and over, without any end result. There are some big holes in my relationship with writing right now and this is one that needs the most attention. I put so much pressure on myself to write something worthy of other people reading it, with the hopes that hundreds and hundreds of eyes find it, that the joy of writing has been suck dry and I often disappointed with the end product.

So, after an hour or so of writing, I have nothing to really show for it. That’s OK because that’s an hour that I didn’t spend scrolling through Facebook or washing the dishes, but writing. Therefor, it was a good hour.

“The useless days will add up to something. The shitty waitressing jobs. The hours writing in your journal. The long meandering walks. The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and dead people’s diaries and wondering about sex and God and whether you should shave under your arms or not. These things are your becoming.” – Cheryl Strayed

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