It’s More Valuable to Write Every Day than Publish Every Day

I’m noshing baguette with chocolate and yesterday’s Prosecco, this last night of winter.

I’m supposed be watching Midge Maisel tonight, and I was trying to crash-program an atomic essay on dialectical thinking, to not lose day 7 of my 30 day publishing streak. Writing that thing- after a 54° Saturday I got to spend with someone I love, helping me shop for a gravel bike — Jesus- he started off looking for me in his truck when I didn’t resurface fast from test ride number one. He’d barely emerged the bike shop parking, when he saw me swirling down the beat on the too-big bike.

Tonight is the last night of comfort food. That’s at least a 90-day streak I’m wrapping up! 180 days, if you count autumn! We count autumn!

My late night Saturday dialectical thinking essay, I couldn’t have published. Even if Houdini’s ghost in the internet hadn’t vaporized my draft as a service to everyone celebrating their massive comfort food streaks, even if it were full-on salad days, I wouldn’t have tripped the button.

Publishing crap to publish anything- who does that serve?

Killing perfectionism, to me, doesn’t mean not rating integrity, before papering the planet with washed-out sentences.

Writing every day is powerful. We face our crud words and depth-averse baby brains. We prioritize learning to write well, and freely. Shipping, to me, means caring sensitively, too, for the words we give the world. Writing every day, we might get cement head. We might get the first day of spring.