Are you practicing writing? Or giving up writing?
Are you practicing persevering? Or giving up?
Are you practicing doing what you know is good for you? Or ignoring what you know is good for you?
You’re always practicing something. And what you practice, you’ll become good at. And what you practice will persist.
I can believe I’ve published the perfect insight – until I narrate the podcast version a couple of weeks later and suddenly notice subtle typos and, sometimes, logical flaws. The typos and flaws were always there – but did I make a mistake earlier?
I can believe I’ve nailed this yoga pose – until, during one session, I suddenly sense some tension in my neck I had never noticed before. The tension was always there – did I make a mistake earlier?
I can believe I’ve cooked the perfect dish – until one day, I notice that the sauce tastes even better with a little less salt. But, even before I noticed it, the improvement was always there – did I make a mistake earlier?
Maybe learning is not about errors but about gaining ever more subtle awareness.
Future dreams build motivation – and sometimes frustration.
Past achievements build confidence – and sometimes complacency.
Present actions create experiences you could’ve never even imagined, nor remembered.
Can’t write at your usual time? Sway, and write later in the day anyway.
A work project doesn’t go your way? Sway, remember your ultimate goal, and keep going anyway.
Can’t go for your usual run because your knee hurts when you woke up? Sway, realize there are more ways to prepare for a marathon than just running, then do a prep session anyway.
If you don’t want to let the day-to-day sway you in your purpose, you must sway with the day-to-day.
When things don’t go your way, sway – but find a way to make progress anyway.
What do we do when AI can cobble together in seconds essays that take us hours (or days) to write – not even counting years of practice?
Maybe it just raises the bar for us – requiring is to make new work that continues to stand out from AI-generated content.
As things stand, that’s still possible.
But what happens when the bar is set so high that our human brains can’t jump over it anymore, even with a lifetime of practice?
Write before you start finding reasons not to write.
Run before you start finding reasons not to run.
Love before you start finding reasons not to love.
Before you react to what you fear in the world around you, act on what you feel in the world inside you.
If writing and creating every day were as vital to my survival as drinking water, ingesting food, and bonding… What would life look like?
Biologically, all behavior is driven by pain, pleasure, and the triggers and habits that come from repeated reaction to those stimuli.
So I eat because I want to escape the pain of hunger – or heartbreak, sadness, and frustration.
I connect with others because I’m neurologically hardwired to feel pleasure when bonding… and pain and deprivation when I’m abandoned.
Similarly, I write because I want to escape the frustration of not being able to put into words an insight.
I also write because I enjoy the rush resulting from finding the words that convey what I want to say.
I write because I love the tingling in my back and neck when I combine those words into sentences with just the right rhythm, just the right cadence capturing the meaning, context, emotion of what I want to say…
I write because writing wrests the essence from the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions racing through my mind and body.
I write because when when I write, I feel that at last, I can make sense of life.
And the more meaning I find, the more likely I am to write.
