So I fucked up. Again

I'm busy trying to be rational towards my anxiety, and it's not exactly working. I've made mistakes with my narrative choices before. It should be no big deal.


Except I've done this twice in the space of one month and I'm normally more careful about this kind of thing and, like the impending speeding ticket in the red tape stage of landing on me, I'm afraid this will somehow wreck my life plans.

Screwing up stories by saying things sideways or omitting a fragment of phraseology is not the end of the world. If I keep telling my anxiety that, maybe it'll sink in. It's not the end of my writing career either. It is a simple and small mistake and, taken at scale1 should not be that big a deal.

Try convincing the side of my brain that hates me. It's not going well.

However, I started the daily Instants as a means of learning how to write good. A means by which to stretch myself, push my own envelope, and maybe fucking learn how to communicate without needless infodumping.

It's still a work in progress. So am I.

The most difficult thing in my life is allowing myself to be a human being and make dumbass mistakes now and again. Even as often as twice in one month. Life doesn't come with a report card and I won't get held down for a B- in communication skills.

I just need to learn where, exactly, to hold my thumb on the verbiage so that the intended message is clear. Sounds easy enough, right?

Sounds easy. I'm still learning these things... and that's okay.

I'm still learning how to be okay with this. A lifetime of gloom-and-doom prophecies from those around me, telling me that one mistake can ruin my life, has not helped with this outlook. Nor has my tendency, once trying, to wind up being very trying.

I'm working on it. I promise.

Let's see how much better I can do today.

  1. 2200+ stories and counting versus two readers with bruised feelings and concerns about my politics. Statistically, I should be fine. Emotionally OTOH...