I Don't Know

Rewrite the same sentence six times.

Cut a line I loved for "flow" and immediately wish I found a way to make it fit instead.

Sit motionless for twelve minutes trying to decide whether I should use commas or em-dashes for one particular phrase.

Get distracted imagining a scene four chapters ahead that has nothing to do with the current plot.

Change one word and feel like I just altered the fate of humanity.

Re-read my own dialogue and debate whether it’s good or if it will make people give up on the fanfic instead.

Delete an entire paragraph because it didn’t feel right.

Spend twenty minutes choosing between “said,” “asked,” “murmured,” or “whispered,” as if it will alter the timeline.

Get emotionally attached to a metaphor no one else will even notice.

Write one (1) good line and convince myself I deserve a national award.

Leave a comment for myself in the draft like: “Fix This Crap” and then never fix it.

Realize I cannot explain how time works. Was that scene three minutes or three hours? Unclear.

Pause mid-sentence to stare at the wall and question my life choices.

Get so overwhelmed I close the page and proceed to feel guilty about it for three days.

Threaten to delete everything and start over. Again. For the seventh time this week.

I am a writer. Not a content-producing machine. I am a writer. Not a content-producing machine. I am a writer. Not a content-producing machine.

It’s okay if I don’t have time to write. It’s okay if a chapter is delayed. It’s okay if my words come out messy. It’s okay if I need to take a break. It’s okay if I don’t update every week, every month, or even every year.

My value as a writer is not measured by how fast I post. My worth is not defined by kudos, bookmarks, or comments.

I am allowed to be slow. I am allowed to rest. I am allowed to write for joy, not for an algorithm.

I am a writer. Not a content-producing machine.