Once upon a rather large Barnes and Nobles, a young woman of twenty-four strolled through the aisles marked ‘fiction’ and wondered why people always needed a profound reason to start important things.
People talk and think too much before doing, she thought, looking at the books before her and thinking of the many more that could have been written if people had more courage and talked of doing things less.
Can we simply just do if we decided to stop thinking about the how, wherefore, and to what end?
She thought yes. So she began a sentence and kept on from there, trying to ignore the regular obstacles that budding writers made for themselves, namely the paralyzing “is this any good” quandary that overcame many of her betters. Before she knew it, she had written full five personal essays on her WordPress blog in a week.
Then came the next bit of trouble; she wondered if people liked it. Checking up on how many bloggers followed, liked, or read her posts was too easy, and she would look up her blog performance stats every five minutes. When the number of “likes” came to zero, she sulked and did not write that day.
“Stupid, stupid, fool”, said her Inner Conscience. “If that’s why you write, then stop writing.”
The young woman snapped back to her senses. Writing at the mercy of approval was a fast-track to misery, she realized.
Henceforth, she promised herself to never set her heart on numbers again. She would write because she had private thoughts, hurts, and hopes that she wanted only the right people to find and perhaps even understand.
“And if those someones are only you and God, well then that’s very good”, said her appeased Inner Conscience. “Very good and how it’s really supposed to be.”