Sometimes you feel like you have not written enough — at least not publicly. You go a few months without publishing something, a few years, whatever it is, people forget about you. It could be that you’re working on something larger, something less immediate, and you don’t have it in you to keep pushing content out there onto the internet. Maybe you don’t have any deep thoughts, at least not any deep thoughts worth sharing. Maybe you’re in a calm period, the experiences you have more quiet and intimate, less adventurous and, to a laymen, less exciting. You have eased into a steady routine, each day filled less with drama to regale readers with than plain ol’ hard work. You know, boring stuff.
Then you look back at all the things you have already written, ten thousand, twenty thousand, fifty thousand, a hundred thousand words. So many articles and so many paragraphs and sentences, on so many different, varied things, that it’s spellbinding. The work you have out there is a rabbit hole; if anyone were to dive down deep, they could get lost for a while. The greats, the people you look up to, or at least hold up as some sort of beacon of what could be, hadn’t produced nearly as much as you, maybe they only had better platforms for it, better avenues through which their ideas, their stories, their experiences could travel — and yet, you feel you have to do more. There is so much worth saying, if you could only find it in you to say it.