I skipped yesterday. Intentionally. I wanted to see what would happen.

You see I was describing my experiment to two dear friends. “I’m trying to discover and use different neural pathways around writing. Over so many years of deadlines and decades of wishing to be recognized as a successful writer, I feel like the wellspring of fun when I write has dried up. I can’t find the excitement, the yippee. I keep looking for the outside source to reinvigorate me. Like some external acknowledgement will finally explode the neural pathways of doubt and I will feel…well, you get it. Instead, I decided to sit down everyday and write for nothing. For me. For the discovery of what might happen. My hypothesis is that if I write that way each day, I will reconnect, rebuild, recalibrate my reliance on the outside atta-girl and I will write more and more from a place of joy and discovery.”

So I skipped yesterday.

And today, it was harder to come to the page. There was this little monster grumbling in my head: Why bother? Who needs you to do this little experiment? Don’t you think it’s time to stop?

Well, little monster, no one needs me to do this little experiment except me. And doing it for me is worth the bother. So no, I’m not stopping.