Midnights, March: 29

I went back and reread the beginning of the book I wrote.

Why didn't anyone warn me? Why didn't I set up an elaborate security alarm that stopped me from opening that cover? 

It's not that it is, strictly speaking, Bad. It's that it's Final. There were things in the first chapter which, upon this reading, struck me as flowing inelegantly. But I can't go back and change it. Can I give myself grace about it? 

This question feels more urgent, less rhetorical, than it would have a year ago, because I don't think I have it in me to both 1) keep writing, and 2) berate myself over past efforts while marinating in shame. I am not getting nearly enough sleep for all that.

It'd be so easy to use this read-through as an excuse to say, “See? I'm no good at this, either. I'm no good at anything, so I shouldn't even try.”

Or I could just let it go. This sweet little book exists, imperfect and earnest (like me!). I can't change it now; all I can do is make the next one is better—and the one after that, and the one after that—until I have a whole line of Past Carries whose writing deserves grace simply because they didn't know what I know now. Or…will know by then. Or would…will have known…when I…well, anyway.

The work goes on, I s’pose.