Only a few days into this whole “writing consistently” endeavor, I seem to have already hit a roadblock. Perhaps I’ll blame it on today being a Monday.
Monday, according to my brain, is always the best time to look forward into the coming week and calmly panic at the massive load of tasks which I must accomplish in the uncomfortably near future. At the beginning of the week, it is terrifying to look forward and know that, somehow, I will have to finish the pile of responsibilities that looms ahead.
In regards to writing, I know that I have to write a collection of words for the next six days in a row. And then again the next week. And again the week after that. What could I possibly have to say? Perhaps today I can get away with paradoxically rambling about having nothing to say, but tomorrow I will need new words. As someone who values words and tries to avoid wasting them, that is a scary realization.
Or maybe it’s just a pride issue.
Maybe I just fear sounding stupid one day, because I may not say the right thing. As if I wasn’t a human who, like all humans, often makes mistakes, and says the wrong thing, or says the right thing in the wrong way.
If I am prideful enough to think that everything I say could be important, or well-worded, or insightful, then of course writing every day will be terrifying. Not because of the frequency, but because of the impossible standards I have arrogantly tried setting for myself. If, on the other hand, I remember that the goal is simply to become a better writer, suddenly the thought of daily typing up new words is not so intimidating.
I must constantly (or, at least, every Monday) remind myself that I am not as important as I would like to think, that my words do not matter as much as I give them credit for, and that the goal is to improve my writing, not to sound smart, or to inspire anyone, or to win arguments.
And finally, I must remind myself to keep working towards that goal, one Monday at a time.