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.
I’ve got some wood that needs splitting here in Oregon so pack those boots.