In the last piece I have published, I mentioned that there was another post I had been working on, a slightly longer one. And that even said last piece was only an exception to my plan of finishing the longer one before writing anything else.

Well, another year¹ has passed since then, and I still haven’t finished it, though I have made progress. The thing now spans approximately 16'000 words — which is waay more than I would have ever imagined — and I would wager that I am around three-quarters of the way to the finish line. Which should excite me, I think, but in truth, it makes me anxious. There is a little voice in my brain, which has only grown more prominent over the last year, telling me that “I should be done by now”. That “I’ll be damned if I can’t get it done soon if I just hurry”. That “I shouldn’t be procrastinating”. That “I should just get it over with, so that I get get on with other things”. Which just makes it even harder to do. And harder to enjoy. It’s silly, I know. Because the only reason I am writing in the first place is joy. There is nothing to prove here. No one to impress. No exam to pass. No job to get. No job to keep. But still. If it were as easy as just telling that voice to shut up, that’s what I would have done.² The world would be an easier place. For many of us, I would imagine. But I digress …

Additionally, my list of post ideas has had time to grow quite a lot. And while none of those ideas make me itch to put them onto a page quite as much as the one last summer did, the thought of writing about something else for a change sounds really appealing. Even more so because the topic of that long post is a rather heavy one for me. Not that this is generally a bad thing, I would even say that having to order my thoughts enough to shape them into a paragraph about those kinds of things is a big part of what I like about writing, but I think doing something a bit more light-hearted would be a good change of pace.

And lastly — and most importantly — when, a few days ago, I reread the last few sections I had written, I did not like them at all. They felt hurried. Forced, even. And empty. I had produced a whole bunch of words, without ever truly saying what I had to say. Or much of anything, really.

All of which is to say that I need to lift that restriction I have imposed on myself. Because a piece such as that, on a topic so close to my heart, doesn’t deserve to be rushed. I need to give it the time it requires. To ripen. And denying myself the possibility for anything else to happen in the meantime feels rather foolish.

So I will not do that any longer. I don’t need to do that any longer.

There. I said it. Even better, I have written it down. And man, does it feel good to have some options again when taking up the pen.³

When the other one calls to me again — and I know in my heart that it will — I will be ready. Maybe to finish it, maybe simply to nudge the word count along a little bit further.

Only time will tell.

And that’s all right.