Most days, I write and I don’t think about it much.

Some days, I write and it doesn’t come out as nice as I’d like for it to. I publish it anyway, though I wonder if I hit a plateau. It makes me reconsider this whole practice. Maybe this isn’t helping me write better. Maybe I should put more effort into each piece, and publish weekly. Maybe, maybe, maybe… I come up with very intelligent-sounding ways of talking myself out of writing every day. I relax. I breathe. I show up anyway, I write, and I publish. I make some small changes, not at the cost of writing every day.

On rare occasions, I write something that I really like, like the recent post about the jellyfish. It makes me wish I could write something this good every day. I’m on a high for a few days. I try to write something good again. Sometimes it works, most times it doesn’t. In basketball, a player has a hot hand and it doesn’t stop until they have to try. Same here. There’s no optimizing for this asides from practice and getting shots up.

On even rarer occasions, I look back at an old post I want to reference. I re-read it and I am surprised at how much I like it. It feels relieving, and I’m left in disbelief that I even wrote it. It felt effortless.

That’s how this feels like, sometimes.

The key seems to keep it simple: write and publish every day, through the bad and the good.