this rain is called progress.

I wrote 1600 new words this weekend (and about 1200 of them today). Usually I’d be hella proud! But the piece is not finished in total, so I’m feeling kinda… bad? Anxious? I hit an exhaustion wall around 10, lost steam and tried to push through and couldn’t, which sometimes happens. And right now, my Perfectionist Brain is basically like “BITCH, WHY DIDN’T YOU WRITE MORE?!”

How I know I’m growing as both a writer and a person: I feel (relatively) okay, at 11:30pm on a Sunday night, telling my Perfectionist Brain to suck it, putting my work the hell down and putting my tired body to bed and trying again tomorrow. Because I know that the spark & the motivation will still be there tomorrow, and that breaks & rest are actually crucial to me being able to write in the first place.

Adulthood is awesome in that way.