I must admit there are days where being a writer is the furthest thing from my mind and remembering to put words together is nearly impossible to do. When that happens writing can seem like an inconvenience. Who wants to to drop everything and spend ten minutes posting to a daily blog. It seems silly–meaningless even. I feel like that more than I want to admit. I don’t always want to string together words and continue this habit. And then when I do I think about the counter–2275 could easily be the last one and then I can finally exhale, skip one, and start over at one.
What would it matter?
I don’t think it would matter to anyone but me, and for me it would be a small yet powerful admittance of failure. It would reflect the moment I gave up and let the ideas of writing slide down the scale of importance to a place where it honestly could never come back from. Writing is something I love and take great pride in, but it is also the most difficult and often fruitless pursuit in my life. Like I wrote above, it wouldn’t matter to anyone to me that I quit and I could do so without anyone being the wiser.
But then I would know. I would remember every day that I laid down and gave up and then I wouldn’t have any credibility with myself. I wouldn’t feel like I had to keep going with anything I ever did when it came to writing. Clearly this wasn’t why I started the blog, but over time this is what it became. An outlet, a promise, and a daily rededication to the cause I hold most dear.