Write something. Write anything. Just write.
This is what I tell myself every day. Then, I sit down to write and I’m frozen with fear. Overcome with insecurity. Paralyzed with self-doubt.
I’m not smart enough. I’m not funny enough. I’m not clever enough.
But you love to write. I tell myself. So, just do it. Just write.
There are so many things I want to write about, so many things I should write about.
Like the heart warming visit I had with my son at Camp Pendleton this weekend. Or the conversation I was forced to have with my daughter about wearing deodorant at eight years old. Or how I have committed to another six weeks of fitness boot camp.
I should write about everything. I should write about nothing. I should write like I used to. I should write like I love to. I should write like I want to.
Tonight I’m doing it. I’m writing. But more importantly, I’m going to hit publish and then do it again tomorrow.
Even if no one is reading. Even if everyone is reading.
Write. Just write, dammit.