The return of morning pages

 I complain to anyone who'll listen that I don't write enough. Thankfully, I am met with the response of "Oh, me either" instead of what my inner critic says to me, which is "Whose fault is that?"

To that I say ... well, yours, Inner Critic. You're the one who is always telling me that if I don't write a bestseller or an award-winning poem or an Oscar-worthy screenplay that I should just give up. And what nagging voice is following every word, every typo, every meandering thought with a disapproving tongue click or an exaggerated clearing of the throat? That would be yours.

Every idea I have has to lead to something bigger, something impactful, something lifechanging. And because that is not even remotely possible (especially without hard work and dedication) I give up. Because you, Inner Critic, want me to fail. Because if I fail soft — by giving up, by not putting myself out there — then I can't fail hard. And if I can't fail hard, then the notion of potential success still looms. 

But to quote the song "Turning on the Screw," "You ain't a has-been if you never was."

It's OK to fail. More than. Failing means you're trying. Failing hard means you're passionate and dedicated. 

It's OK to be mediocre at things that bring you joy. By all means, keep practicing and improving, but don't let being just so-so at something take the joy out of doing it. Not everything has to be monetizable, and not every venture has to result in mastery. You only get to do this thing once in this form. Enjoy what you can when you can. 

It's OK to just be OK. 

But I will not accept failing soft. If I allow myself to fail hard, I might also get to soar.