I don’t want to write. I know because I keep cutting off my thoughts before they fully take shape on the page. Delete, delete, delete. There’s this unrelenting expectation of authenticity, like a bloodhound sniffing out what’s not genuine. And when it finds something lacking, it vetoes the idea without hesitation. I’m not a fan. After a few of these rejections, I just want to quit. What’s the point?
But maybe that’s the point—to keep going even when the process feels like wading through mud. Writing isn’t always about inspiration; sometimes, it’s about endurance. The act of showing up, messy and unsure, might be the most authentic thing I can offer.
I need to tread carefully at times like these. I want to be real, yet I also don’t want to shut myself down. It’s a delicate balance I’ve learned—one where “good enough” has to be good enough so I can keep doing this.
I fear being redundant, of boring myself. But I also don’t want to put on a show just for the sake of putting on a show.
You know when you set a car to cruise, but then take it off cruise and it coasts, slowing down? That’s my mood right now. I felt confident and sure-footed before, but now I don’t. I want to give up. I want to escape. I want to build an underground bunker and come out next year.
Whenever I hear myself talk this way, I want to follow up the sentiment that I’m being dramatic. And that’s okay. Sometimes I need to throw a minor tantrum, even if it annoys me.
I’m lost in my thoughts, and I don’t trust them. They’re spinning a negative narrative that’s usually neutral or positive.
But maybe that’s what writing is for—not just to process the good, but to air out the shadows and question the stories my mind insists on telling. Maybe these jumbled thoughts deserve space too, if only to remind me they’re not as solid as they seem.
Besides getting a good night’s sleep and returning to reading Circe, I don’t think there’s much else to do. But I’m here, and I did it, so that’s good.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 