As we’ve noted on the podcast, I’m in the process of writing a book. At first, it was this really great, exciting thing. I couldn’t get enough of it. Every day, I was eager to sit down and learn more about it. It was a sweet infatuation. And then, as I got deeper into it, I realized how difficult and complex it would be, and I grew anxious. I started to avoid it. I wished I hadn’t started it, this now crazy obligation I had made for myself. I started doing other things to distract me from its existence, as if pretending it wasn’t there would make it go away. Or I imagined that it would be fine without my effort, that it would somehow keep itself going without my care and attention.
And then, a few days ago, as I was rereading what it was growing into, I fell in love with it. I realized that I needed it, perhaps more than it needed me. But no. That’s not right. It’s mutual. It has to be, or it won’t live.
And now, though the growth is slower and harder, I’m excited again to see where it goes, even if it’s ultimately nowhere.