Writing can be so hard sometimes. It’s almost always worth it, definitely good for you, probably good for the world, and sometimes hard to do. I’ve really fallen off over the past few months. The words are harder to get out. Even these few words. Six months ago I found it easy. I struggled to stop writing. Six months from now it might be the same. Humans are funny like that. I am thankful for this weird little practice though. A few words here, even if I didn’t manage to get any other words out.

I’m still so bullish on daily practice, no matter how small. I’ve come to terms with the idea that Ic a miss a day or two, but I want to acknowledge that I missed them. I want it to be a daily practice that’s imperfect, rather than calling it something else. I wrote every day because I’m a writer. I used to make art every day because I’m an artist, and I want to make art every day again. I want to run every day. Record something every day. Can’t do it all maybe, but then maybe I can? A tiny bit, every day.

I probably spent an hour or more (it was more) doomscrolling social feeds today. Did it help me? No. Did it feed my soul? Definitely not. Did it make me feel a bit sad, deplete the little energy I had and make me just a little bit more addicted to it? Unfortunately yes. Making stuff does the opposite. Making art or writing words or drawing type or... whatever. Making stuff is good for me. It gives me energy instead of taking it away, and I could have made so much stuff in an hour-ish!

I’m gonna finish my day with a cup of tea and without looking at my phone I think. A book maybe? Imagine that. I love books, and I’ve fallen off of reading recently too. It’s so hard to climb on, and so easy to fall off. That seems to be universally true about the things that are good for us. It’s easy to climb on the stuff that’s bad for us. There’s not much better than a cup of tea and a book, anyway. My only ridiculous and less attainable goal is to live in a lighthouse by a stormy sea whilst I enjoy them.