I plan to read more literary novels. But sometimes I end up blowing through a cheesy thriller that I grabbed at the library.

JJ buys kale to make healthy salads, and then we find ourselves eating frozen pizza on the couch.

I add Kurosawa and Bergman movies to my Netflix list, but I also rewatch the same episode of Seinfeld for the fifth time because it makes me laugh, and I already know how it ends.

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I like to think I have standards. I know what "good" is, or at least I have some idea. But I’m cool with lowering them dramatically. If I only ever let myself do things that are objectively great, I’d miss out on a lot of joy.

And, more to the point, I’d probably do very little at all.

I own a small stack of soft cotton T-shirts that all say "Create Every Day" across the front. They’re from a project I did with Kit, the platform I use to send these emails. I didn’t ask to be a walking billboard, but they sent me a bunch of them, and they’re comfortable and easy to grab when I’m getting dressed in the dark. Maybe you’ve seen me wearing them in my videos.

I don’t wear them because I’m making a statement. But in a way, I guess I am. Because I do create every day. Not because I swore a vow or made a vision board. But because it’s what I do.

Even if it’s not great. Especially if it’s not great.

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I’ve been writing this newsletter for over five years. That’s hundreds of essays. Some of those essays were strong. I felt it in my gut, and you felt it too. You wrote to tell me so.

But just as many were... meh. Some fell flat. Some I regret sending. Some I barely remember writing.

Same with my YouTube videos. A few have been wildly popular—millions of views, thousands of comments. Others are practically invisible. They come and go without a trace. I can't always predict which will be which.

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I used to hesitate.

I’d sit on ideas, waiting until they were good enough to share. If, years ago, I’d imagined tens of thousands of strangers reading what I tapped out on my phone each week, I’d have gone straight back to bed.

But at some point, I realized: if I keep waiting for everything to be brilliant, I’ll never make anything at all.

So I gave myself permission. To be mediocre. To miss the mark. To write something that no one likes. To draw something that doesn’t work. To say something dumb. To skip shaving. To make a thing and move on.

Some of my best work has come from that laxness. From letting go of trying to be impressive. From not knowing if it was good and sharing it anyway.

And oddly, the stuff I thought was brilliant has sometimes landed with a thud. The stuff I almost didn’t share has sometimes gotten the strongest response. I’m not a good judge of my own work.

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I used to think my worth came from making great things. But I’ve slowly come to believe that my worth comes from making things, period. The judgment comes later—if it comes at all.

And the truth is, we don’t get judged by our worst work. We get remembered for our best. And even that judgment is mostly self-imposed. I’m not even sure who’s keeping score. (Besides, don't they have better things to do?)

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I’ve made peace with the fact that some days I’ll write like Didion and some days I’ll write like a guy who just finished a frozen pizza in a T-shirt that says "Create Every Day."

There are a lot of essayists who are better than I am—David Sedaris, E.B. White, Robert Benchley, Russell Baker —and yet, here I am.

Good enough.

Your pal,

Danny

P.S. I just published a video you might enjoy — It's a summary of the things I made in June. Watch it here.​