I turned 52 a couple of days ago, and decided to give myself the gift of “permission to write”. I’m not new to writing, but aside from a weekly newsletter for a very niche audience, most of the “writing” I do these days falls under the umbrella of “must write about this!” thinking, with very little actual output.
That’s frustrating.
There are pent up words that want to come out, but there is a moat of perfection that thwarts them. So that’s where the gift of permission comes in, conquering expectations. I am now allowed to write stuff that is not fully formulated, not fully thought out, not perfect. The world already has Paul Graham. My job is to just write.
It’s words that have to be conquered, not worlds.
