I finished my third story for Story-a-Day. I’m feeling that familiar mix of joy–I did it!–and dread–It’s probably terrible. Being terrible isn’t the end of the world though, is it?

Why do we feel compelled to do something that we don’t even have confidence in? It really makes no sense.

It’s actually a privilege to make up stories. How many stories are silenced because of poverty, disaster, and war? If the worst thing that happens to my own stories is that someone doesn’t like them…well…that really is nothing at all.

So, dear Llama, I’m going to be happy with my stories. If others are too, that’s just an extra gift.