So, somewhere along the line, I got complacent with my writing.
I don't know if it's because I've been going balls-to-the-wall ever since the fall, or because other events are slowly growing in my life, but somewhere along the line, I stopped challenging myself.
For the last month or so, I've been more than happy with posting in this blog and nothing else. Even though I haven't really been writing anything that I could use as a base for an article, I would write my daily thing and be happy with just that. I'd look at the dwindling days and pat myself on the back, seemingly okay with finishing up the project and nothing else. I'd look at all the things I'm putting into place at the moment -- finishing up teacher training, slowly building my class schedule and clientele -- and I'd look at all the things I've already done. I would attempt to edit M#2 or submit M#1 to an agency, only to fall short in record time.
But I'm attempting to get back on the right track by telling myself the exact same thing I did when I started this blog: it's not a choice.
So, whether it's editing or coming up with article ideas or submitting M#1 or editing M#2, I must.do.something. And it doesn't matter if I'm busy that day or not feeling particularly creative. It's not a choice.
Because I can only be indignant about the state of the writing world if I'm actively trying to do something. I can't roll my eyes about the dying publishing world and the growing illiteracy if I'm standing still with my writing. Someday, regardless of my level of success, I don't ever want to look back and realize that I could've done more. Granted, there's always some more you can technically do, but I never want to feel like I rested on my laurels.
I never want to say that I stayed complacent.
So I'm off to edit an article that has been gathering dust for months now. Because it's not a choice. Again.
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