Every week at around 8pm on Wednesday, I absolutely hate what I’ve written here. It stinks. There’s no chance it’s going to turn into a readable piece by the next day. It’s going to be the week that I finally call in sick with you guys. The silver lining of this recurring freakout is that it’s the stage of writing-related grief just before acceptance. Hating what you’ve written is a step ahead of hating the blank page and a step or two before the satisfying thrill of putting an endnote on a piece you’re ready to share.
The tools get better, but you still have to chop the wood
I’ve got some wood that needs splitting here in Oregon so pack those boots.