One for the challenges of being a nonfiction writer is that you can’t tell half of your friends when you’ve finally gotten published. Chances are they did something stupid you spent several weeks of your time and talent judging them for it.
Insert inspirational humblebrag about getting up before the sun here.
Oh! Hey. It’s been a minute…
But when the time came, and I chose to close my notebook and lace up one of my three pairs of running shoes, I discovered that the hope was nothing more than that—a wish for an untrue thing to be true. Honestly, I have to confess, I’m not sure if I like actually running or if I just prefer it to sitting in front of a blank sheet of paper attempting (and failing) to be special.
It is hard to grow your blog if you keep forgetting that you have one.
I’ve decided to work from bed today.
The difference between being famous and being normal is that famous people have figured out how to market their mediocrity.
Sometimes you have to give up on your dreams to pay the rent. That’s not failure. It’s recognizing that you don’t love anything nearly as much as you love not being homeless.
On the real.
I don’t feel like writing today.
It is hard to call myself a confident writer when the success of a piece is often determined by how many people liked it. Perhaps brave. But definitely not confident.
Addicted maybe. Perhaps brave. But definitely not confident.