Yesterday I published my 100th post. That’s 100 days of sitting down and writing something new, without drafts or a backlog. It feels like yesterday that I celebrated 28 days. I was almost reticent to claim that it had been 100 because of reruns, but even then I don’t just re-share a post.
It all started with trying to build community, and that’s already started to work. I’d been writing morning pages for a long time, but I wanted to make something every day and put it out there. I specifically wanted to write every day, but of course I started making art daily, too.
With my writing, I wanted to write about life. I wanted to write about places I love—like London, Brooklyn, my hometown, and of course home. I wrote about my love letter to California, about my grandfather, about places that call to me and about memories from my many homes.
Like everyone else, I’m a work in progress. Evidenced by the fact that I’m still working on things from months ago. Evidenced by this very post, and the last two paragraphs of equal length. Despite that, and despite what I claim to the contrary, I’m proud of myself and this blog.
I believe that stories matter. I believe that my story matters, and absolutely that your story matters. I wish that everyone told their story, and even though it’s hard, wish that they’d just start—despite the many challenges. If they don’t write it, I hope they at least tell it.
One hundred consecutive days is a big milestone, but I’m not going to stop there. I’m going to try really hard to keep posting every day for as long as I can. I’ll post because I really care about it. I’ll post even if I can barely show up. I’ll post to plant seeds that might one day grow.
If you’ve been reading along, thank you for that. I’m grateful and I’m honored. Whilst I mostly write for myself, I sincerely hope that you enjoy what I’ve written and would love to hear from you if you do.