Every day now is so much the same, has been the same for weeks. Here we go starting week nine of quarantine, and what a time I picked to start writing every day! Right now everything I write has to come only out of my head because nothing is happening. I cannot discuss this or that thing that happened today, except for what’s happened at home, which is a slight-but-not-interesting-enough variation of what’s happened every day for two months.

So the gist here is that I feel like I have nothing to write about, nothing to say, and yet I’ve tasked myself with posting every day. But that’s not really the problem. That just is. Who cares if I have nothing to say today? Well, I do. That’s the problem. Those three bothersome brainmates come around again:

What if I keep having nothing to say for a long time?

If I have nothing to say, then people won’t want to read my blog because they’ll be bored to tears.

I should always have something to say.

Yeah. Not doing me any good, I know. What would do me some good is squashing those three handwringers into very tiny rooms in my brain (because I can’t get rid of them for good) and giving bigger rooms to Oh Well; I Can; and C’mon, Get a Grip, This Isn’t Going to Kill You. I have a much better time when I’m hanging out with those brainmates, although that last one has some room to grow in the empathy department.

I’ll keep you posted on how this living rearrangement is going. I don’t think What If, If Then, and Should are going to take it lightly, but I’m prepared to be firm.