It is morning time. The birds were singing loudly in the cold as I stepped outside. After I came back inside, I was thinking this thought I’d like to say and so I wrote it down:
Poets, novelists, painters, musicians, or whatever, we can be hard on ourselves and worry our work isn’t good enough. I’ve found it enjoyable and healing to read my book as if it was some book I’d just gotten to read for pure enjoyment and am happy to let go of the inner critic when its work is done, and it’s time for simply pleasure. You might be surprised by how delightful your art really is with this way of being.