As I’ve said many times, writing 200 words a day has proven to be an actual challenge to the way I live and the way I think. My current eight-day streak is the longest I’ve gone on here since I joined back in January, and oddly enough (or not?) I’m feeling a shift in perspective. I don’t know how many days it takes to form a habit (maybe 30?) but I can feel it happening in my mind. Some version of the idea that it’s just important to do it, no matter what you actually write, because in the grand scheme of things this is an exercise in self-expression, in reflection, in poetry in motion. Like making a painting every day, many will be shit, but the output is what’s important, it’s a muscle you are training.
I know I’ve written about this frustration, or chance for growth, here before and it’s probably pretty boring to watch someone take two steps forward and three back when it comes to making up their mind, but here we are because this is another day where I don’t really have much to say and so I’m just here to talk about the struggle. I will say though, my ability to craft insane run on sentences has only gotten better as I’ve gotten older. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad one, but it feels good to me. I know good writing is about discrete parts that combine, and that such dreamy and meandering sentences only serve to confuse readers, but you know, fuck it. I’m not here to make anyone happy but myself, and just writing makes me happy. It reinforces my capability when I’m struggling to get 10 words down and then I turn around and am close to 300 again.
It’s not beautiful work, but it’s honest. It will be forgotten to time, like all things, but the impact it has on my skill, my mind, my grit, are immeasurable. Soon enough I’ll get out of this rut and back into writing in more structured and sequential ways, but for now I just want to get these words down. And for now these words are “fuck this writing, but I’m gonna do it”.