I’m getting myself a Stop Running Away From More Writing for my 38th birthday.
I’ve got so many little essays and big books and short stories and long thoughts to share with the world…
But they’ve been cooped up like those poor chickens in those factories, involuntarily huddled among each other, fighting for space.
Some get sick and die. Others, worse yet, get sick and still stay alive. Suffering from lack of exposure to natural light and nutrients.
I don’t want that for Me.
I don’t want that for my Art.
We don’t deserve that.
I’ve been telling myself that once I settle in to wherever or whatever, then I’ll finally make more video essays like these.
Or more mixtapes like these.
Or produce more courses like these.
But all I want to do these days is write.
I can make videos; good ones too. but I’m not a filmmaker. I can make more courses, and they sell well, but I’m not a professor.
Those are things I enjoy, but when they get in the way of my writing, they are no longer fun hobbies, they are threats.
I am a storyteller.
Those other things are things I can do, but every can ain’t a should.
Besides, all want to do these days is write. Even when I’m afraid it won’t write good. (See?)
Still, I’m facing Me more in this 38th spin, and I’m putting that decision into practice right now. I decided to leave fearofmorewriting in these 37 years of my Me-ness. I started on the first of this month, and I’ve been journaling about it daily since then. Bought a journal just for it and everything. It’s called That Me.
That Me is the She I’ll be when I stop doing all (not just ‘most’) of the not-it shit. That Me is in plain view, and sometimes She and I are indistinguishable.
Come next Monday, I’ll have my Stop Running Away From More Writing in hand, not just in mind, and I’m gonna use the shit outta that shit. Watch.