I’ve been getting closer to finishing my book. I’ve found it easier to keep editing than it is to finish.

Because I know that it’s not perfect. Not even close. Because after writing it for five years, it is a part of me. Because I have, wrapped in white knuckles, high expectations.

Because I’m aware, deep in my core, that I’ve made a foolish gamble with my self-worth. Placing it all on my success. The yoga philosophy I grew up with states clearly that claiming ownership over the fruits of your actions makes you a prisoner to anxiety. Be not attached to the outcome but rather content with your daily actions.

I chucked those principles in the trash. Didn’t think twice about it to be honest. Failure wasn’t an option from far away. But I’m up close now.

I’d like to grab my contentment from the bin I’ve chucked it in. Or perhaps better, place my book next to it and walk away.

I do. Sometimes, I want to walk away. But in the same vein I can't. I'm not sure if I'm addicted or obsessed or if there is a difference.

And if I can't walk away then I must find the strength to walk forward. And it's dawned on me recently that, over time, I've picked up a quality I didn't used to have. I've become so fucking precious about it. And part of that is editing, you need to pick apart the details to edit well.

But at some point you need to pick up your head and say I'm done. Say here it is. It's yours now.

Because if I don't do that, how will I write the next story, and the one after that? I've already written this one. And I think I'm just starting to learn that it’s not the putting yourself out there, the embarrassment, or the failure. It’s the stagnation that kills you.

Until next time,

Live your light.