90/90

The end is never quite what I expect it to be. But, we know what they say about expectations.

I’ve been anticipating this end for 90 days. I assumed that there would be this huge exhale, an incredibly satisfying sense of accomplishment, that I’d celebrate somehow, even.

As it turns out, I’m laying in my bed trying desperately not to fall asleep.

It’s not that I’m not excited or proud of this accomplishment, I am. But, the most powerful part of this process happened on some unmarked day along the way.

***

My professor and mentor, Brad, threw down the challenge 90 days ago. 91, actually.

On Day 1, Brad, Megan and I were sitting around drinking coffee, eating blueberry pancakes and talking writing; something we did a few times throughout this journey.

I remember the panic that washed over me when Brad asked if we were in, if we’d commit to writing and publishing every day for 90 days. Here I was sitting with two writers, who in conversation reference writers that I’ve never heard of, let alone read.

Publish every day, I asked back nervously.

I knew it only be a matter of time before I was found out. Words weren’t made for hiding.  

Mine has been an unpursued passion outside of the pages of my journals and unofficial “blogs”.  I’ve toyed with the pursuit many times over, never quite sure how far I could go, choosing to stop before I was crushed and devastated.

***

I didn’t think I could do it.  I thought sure at some point, far before 90/90 that I’d run out of words and creative energy.

And I did, several times. It’s evident in the writing, the peaks and valleys, excitement and misery, assuredness and angst. It’s all there.  Because I kept writing.

I stopped staring at the screen while entertaining my fears and started writing.            

I’ve got no doubt that the crushing devastation will come, sooner rather than later. I expect that.

At which point, I’ll remember the 90 posts in 90 days where I learned that I must write on both the days that I feel like a writer and the days I feel like a fraud. I must write on the days when the words bubble up on the inside and explode on the page and the days that I force them, letter by letter. I must write when I am empty and when I am full.

I must write.

And I assume that this ending is empty because it’s actually a beginning.