I’ve given up days of writing here and there, and I think there was a whole month I missed a year or so back. I’ve not considered stopping until last night. I’m not entirely sure why the thought crossed my mind, but it did. It didn’t feel terribly wrong or out-of-place either. It didn’t seem scary. It seemed appropriate.

I’ve made it quite a ways into this 1000 days. Yes, I took 2000 getting there—sigh. So maybe that’s not all that good, but closing in on 900 is not a slouch numbers-wise.

As I considered why it was this idea surfaced at all, the theme that seemed to stick was a combination of lack of quality content and the imposition this effort has made on the balance of my life. I’d say in many ways the quality of the content here has degraded over the years. I’ve not made nearly as many new discoveries of plots as I had in the beginning. I’ve not stuck with the few new ones I have found. And I’ve definitely had fewer self-contained threads as I did in the first 100 days. I circle back to old favorites and just gnaw the bone; I don’t even get bloody gums and plastic in my shit for the effort—certainly no plot. On the other half of that combination, an hour is not a huge block of time in a day; an hour ought to be easy enough to find. I’ve illuminated those details in the past so I won’t do more than say here that for both internal and external reasons a consistent hour a day is hard to find.

When I’m faced with broken things at work I try to list out the options for where the solution could be found. Usually you can find three categories: nothing is wrong, you just think it’s broken, carry on; you are doing something wrong, you should change what you’re doing; the thing is unfixable and should be removed before being dwelt on too much longer—you’ve got better things to do. I modified these categories to make sense in this 1000 Days context.

I went to sleep with this on the brain. Of course my unconscious came to my aid and drew a colorful dream-picture of what all this meant. Let’s say the short version of that sleepy communiqué was that a clown had stolen my rightful job. I’m not sure my unconscious was taking all the variables into account to produce its little play. The clown was clearly good at what he was doing, but not doing anything I couldn’t; I’m not sure why I felt it was my right to have the role he usurped. In any case, lots of psychological fodder in those last few lines I’m sure.

So, am I giving up? Giving in? Deciding what’s right? Or am I going to fix what’s broken to make it better?

487 words on day 893