I’ve never been what you’d call consistent.

Except at maybe starting things.

And (re)scheduling things.

It’s that “re” that’s critical.

Subtext in my daily gratitude practice is that there isn’t a limit on the number of times you can change things in a Google calendar.

I believe in consistency, in things like “atomic habits” and the like.

What I don’t believe in?

Me.

Trusting myself.

Believing in my process.

Because I’m at a point where if I’m not earning, there isn’t much point to the effort.

And because I’ve let me talk myself out of so many things over the years, I don’t have something to fall back on that I’ve been secretly crafting behind the scenes.

Working on fixing that, on sitting still for The Muse instead of hiding out like some kind of direct-to-video Fugitive reboot and yeah, we’re at that drain pipe, and my artist’s way feels more like jumping off the edge than some careful, calculating accumulation of words.

Isaac Asimov called writing “thinking through my fingers” and I’ve done a lot of that over the last few years.

Not that much of that has seen the light of day, but it’s there.

Laughing at me from the screen.

I’m happiest when I’m writing for me, not you.

Nothing personal, reader, and sure, I’d like to bring life to things that resonate.

Find a true thing that connects.

But I don’t know you.

So I can’t write for you.

I can only write for me.

Because I’m you.

You’re me.

All of us part of the One Big Thing.

Fragments of a universe.

Walking each other home.