I didn’t write the Morning Stories letter last week. Not because I didn’t have anything to say, but because I missed the fact the it was actually Sunday. The next morning I thought it was my Morning Stories day, until I realised that it was Monday. At first I wanted to write it anyway, but that I’ve decided that it’s not the end of the world if there’ll be one Morning Story less.
In the past, missing one day on any project would mean that I would stop doing it all together. What’s the point if you can’t be consistent? This is the remnant of the “do it right or don’t do it at all” refrain from my childhood.
Luckily, now, I don’t care for perfection, I actually think it’s boring. I want realness, I want a bit of a mess, I want mistakes, I want us forgetting things or skipping days, just because we don’t feel like it. I want to see the little cracks, the hairline fractures of our lives.
I don’t need to be perfect and I don’t want to do things only when I can do them right. I want to be me and do the things the wrong way, or my way. Because trying is better than doing nothing.