I’m hesitant to start writing. Part of the hesitation is procedural. I don’t want to junk up my iCloud with a bunch of unfinished novels. On the other hand though, I don’t want to start a novel here, in my journal, because it feels like too little commitment.

I judge myself, asking if I really have the drive to write a book if I’m scared of the relatively trivial risk of littering my computer/iCloud with a bunch of files.

What if i decide to celebrate every unfinished work? Each of them was good practice. Any of them I may one day pick up and start anew and possibly even finish. None of them is a failure.

It’s like training for a marathon. Training for a marathon doesn’t involve running twenty-six miles every day, but instead in hundreds of training runs. A mile. Seven miles. Four miles. Doesn’t matter. It’s all training. It’s all running. It’s all practice. And every mile is a success, as every chapter, every page, every word I’ve written has been a success.

Clean up the iCloud. File away all the unfinished works into whatever folder structure and then start a new one. If I only write a page, so what? It’s training. It’s practice. It’s finding my way.

It’s living my craft and my purpose.