A Particularly Pretentious Dragon (or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Write Every Day)

I made a bit of a mid-year resolution to try to write every day. This is something I should have been doing as it is. I wanted to pick the habit up not just due to needing practice, but also because I wanted to challenge myself to try out new ideas, keep producing content, and just make sure that writing stays fun for me. I posted once about that weird mental block I sometimes hit when I let too much time slip in between creative projects, and writing something every day should, in theory, help me avoid that.

I don’t need to write something very long in order to fill my daily quota, though I do try to fill up a page. But even something as short as a paragraph could suffice, so long as it gets written. That’s the important thing.

I don’t share everything that I write. Far from it, actually. Sometimes I write dreamy, stream-of-conscious stuff that never leaves the confines of my personal computer screen, and frankly, I don’t give a damn if things like that slip into purple prose. I just let it go where it will, and enjoy the ride. “Sticky Days” was one of those pages, and just happened to be one I decided to share. More might come in the future, but mostly, they’re for me and no one else. Which… sounds a bit like I’m hoarding pages of purple prose like a particularly pretentious dragon with a particularly pretentious hoard, but the reasoning is more that I’m just not sure if anyone would actually enjoy them. Someone might enjoy bringing the posts up as dramatic reading fodder, or maybe that’s just me plus a few of my friends from college. (But actually, that can be so much fun.) I will admit, though, that sometimes I look at my WordPress blog and think that, for a writer’s blog, it is strangely devoid of content.

I think part of the problem there is that I worry about what someone would want to read rather than what I would want to write. I don’t have this problem when it comes to my fiction, but when it comes to a blog? That’s when I suddenly feel as though I have nothing to say.

I know I’m not alone in this. But it is something I’m going to try to better about. … At. With.

Whatever preposition that sentence is supposed to end with.

Which… would actually be none, now that I think about it.

The point, though, is that I want to keep going, and make sure that my writing continues to belong to me, first and foremost. As much as I’d love to have a massive audience that I know exactly how to write for and what they’d want to read (which is an entirely unrealistic goal for any writer, really), I don’t believe that I could ever get even a fraction of the way there if my heart wasn’t in my writing.

So, time to stop worrying, and keep writing.

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