In the past few days, I wasn’t writing anything here. But I was writing.

Where was I?

I was riding my waves.

I still have my memoir to self-edit for the last time (hopefully) before sending it out. But now I’ve been working on my first fiction. A novel as planned.

Working on the new project before the heat wears out, I couldn’t push myself to continue my routine of jotting down my thoughts on creativity.

“It just takes 10 minutes!” I heard myself saying.

“You know it always takes more than that!” I reply.

“It doesn’t have to be good! It needs to flow and keep going!”

“The new project is still on its delicate state… I don’t want to do anything to disturb its flow!”

“You are a despicable perfectionist!”

What an insult!

“I’m not.”

“Then you are just lazy.”

“…”

I need to lighten it up a bit. Self-blaming is never good for anyone.

Lazy person or a perfectionist, they are both me sometimes. And it’s ok. What’s important is not “being here for the sake of being here.”

What’s important to me is that I’m writing every day. Anywhere.

I accept who I am, even after knowing how I am.