One of my fave writers once said, “You know, when you first start writing you’re going to suck. And so it’s good to keep it to yourself, until maybe you don’t suck as much.” And, holy balls, do I hear that—too my very core, a phrase, by the way, I just learned originated from 14th-century English, and is literally in direct reference to the innermost part of fruit. Learn something new every day. You’re welcome.

14th-century etymology aside, I chose to hear something quite different than the writer’s intended meaning. And, with that in mind, I carried his quote with me like a tattered flag on a wobbly stick, damn near calling on it as a personal mantra. For years.

But what I heard versus what the writer actually meant were two very different things. I was elated at the justification that had been handed to me, the easy-out that landed in my lap. And, truth is, I’d been doing exactly as I’d heard the man say, anyway: gripping tightly to my words, keeping them close to my chest always—you know, until they sucked a little less.

My bastardization of the intended context didn’t change anything for me, as far as my habits went. But it very much served as a new excuse to not improve, to not put in the work, to not grow as a writer. And, I lived in that space the better part of my life—somewhere between intensely creative beginnings, with an urgency to realize my ideas, and slow, gradual pauses that eventually found their way to a folder titled “Starts”.

I can see easily, at this point in my life, just how often I played both victim and saboteur. Not once or twice, but on several occasions, I cornered myself, threw acid in my own face, and cried at the pain I inflicted.

I could really be pissed off about the time I wasted hurting myself, could do the ol’ beat-myself-up gig. But instead, what I see today? Are learning experiences, moments of growth, and challenges overcome. And that? Makes me feel pretty fucking strong. So, Imma take the win.