Why am I writing this essay?
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• Because it’s almost Friday, and I always send out an essay each Friday.
• Because I’m a writer, and writers write.
• Because (most of the time) I love doing this—arranging ideas, picking words.
• Because I want to see the finished piece. And feel that sense of satisfaction.
• Because I do this for you. But more, I do this for me.
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But does it matter why I do this?

Absolutely.

Because if I mistake my motivations and I’m fuzzy on my goals, I could end up looking for answers to the wrong questions. Questions like: How many ❤️s did it get? Was it optimized for Google’s search engine? Was it better than an essay someone else wrote? Did Beyoncé like it?

Not my problem.
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This happens when I draw too.

I’ll put down my pen, look at the page, and feel … disappointment.

What happened to the hair?

Why did I use that horrible teal?

Who is this even supposed to be?

Why can’t I draw fingers?

What will Facebook think?

Why aren’t I as good as what’s-their-name on Instagram?

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But none of those were the reason for doing this particular drawing.

I sat down to draw tonight because I had a free hour and I wanted to sit in my studio, put on some Coltrane, play with my tempera sticks, and practice drawing like Miroslav Sasek.

And I did all of those things. Exactly like I wanted to. Success.
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But as soon as the drawing was done, those questions crept in. Sharper. Louder. Meaner. Criteria I hadn’t agreed to, but still felt compelled to obey.

I ordered chicken paillard and now I’m beating myself up because I didn’t get the haddock.

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That’s what I try to remind myself whenever I slide into this trap.

To focus on not just what I made, but what I meant.

Not just where I got, but where I was going.

Did it serve the purpose I gave it? Did it scratch the itch I sat down with?

Can I be satisfied with just the pure joy of creation?

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Not everything has to be meaningful or deep.

Sometimes the point is just to play.

Or to move my hand.

Or to be quiet with myself for a while.

But whatever the reason, I need to be clear about it.

Because when I remember my intention, I judge the result differently.

Less like a critic.

More like a witness. A partner. A friend.
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Lately, I’ve been thinking: maybe that’s the only real measure.

Not whether the thing I made is good or worthy or impressive—

but whether it stayed true to the reason I sat down to make it.

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If I drew because I wanted to draw,

if I wrote because I had something to figure out,

then that’s enough. That’s all there is.

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I forget that all the time.

But I’m trying to get better at remembering.

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Maybe that’s what this whole thing was about.

Your pal,

Danny