Some people love writing.  I know these people.  I admire these people. Because I love to read.

I love having written.

What I mean by that is writing is not something that relaxes me.  It’s hard getting those thoughts out of my head, where they could happily live in perpetuity, and into pixels on virtual paper.  I don’t know that it’s even a relief.  It’s a chore.

But when I “finish” enough to be satisfied that yes, I believe that’s what I meant and I think most readers will make sense of it in a useful way, then…I love that.  That moment.  And, perhaps even more, the moment of re-reading something I wrote months or even years ago and saying to myself, yes, that is good.  That’s a wonderful moment.

It’s an exercise that grows me.  Writing is.  My obligation to the task doesn’t come from a belief that I have anything particularly important to say that 100s of other more talent writers have already said.  Writing forms me, shapes my thinking, and makes me mentally fit. Much the way a consistent endurance training program creates an athlete.

So I write.

I have to prompt myself.  Give myself goals and reasons to write.  Or I get lazy. I don’t want to be lazy.

So I write.

And I keep reading.  Because I love reading what others write.  It shapes me too, but not the way that writing does.

So I write.





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