We’re at Day 87. 13 to go. It’s a little weird to think how fast 100 days have gone. I don’t think I could reel off to you what I’ve written about on 86 other occasions. Which means that I’ve generated an impressive amount of bullshit off the top of my head.
Most days I’m tired and can’t really be bothered. But I still do. And I always find something. And that’s what’s been cool. I said at the start “it’s about the journey not the content” but only really said it because I felt it was the right thing to say. But actually, its now the truth. What I’ve written feels irrelevant. What matters is that even when I’m not in the mood, I can generate 250+ words, with relative ease, in half the time and effort that it took on day 1. That repetition, it really gets you somewhere, huh.
And I don’t want to lose that.
I feel like I want to make these last 10 or so days count. I want to write brutal, honest, raw stuff that takes guts and heart and feeling.
I thought about dong it tonight. A dark, sad, vulnerable, insecure, tearful, mood clouded over me earlier this evening leaving me feeling like a lonely, loveless, hopeless fuck up who is incapable of making good life choices, and beating myself up for shitty relationships, emotionally bankrupt men and situations where I should have known better.
But I don’t think you need to read all of that. Well. Not until the novel.
But I might do a mini exercise in it. Go out with a bang..how about I pick ten of the BIG life subjects and write about one each day? I reckon those, with a couple of tarot readings and a Day 100 emotional splurge might just get me over the line in a way I can feel proud and valid.
So here goes. Let's reel them off now…in no particular order of how I’ll write them:
See you at 100.