I write the words I want to read, the words I can’t find anywhere except in my own head.

Progress toward my goals:

• Marathon: On Track. Icy sidewalks kept me from running for about half this week, but I ran yesterday and I’ll run this morning after I post this. I’m claiming the victory this week.
• Two Square Yards of Earth: Behind Schedule. I have started on Chapter 1; by my plan, I should have finished Chapter 3 or 4 by now.
• 100 Posts: Behind Schedule. This is my thirteenth post for the year. My plan was to have sixteen by this Sunday.

There are so many writers out there who write more beautifully, more succinctly, more prolifically than I do. Who do I think I am, I wonder sometimes, to try to share my words when so many others share theirs better? Why not just read their words and save myself the time, the effort, the frustration?

Why not sleep a little later instead of getting up to write?

Why not spend more time with my kids?

Why not give my wife more of my attention?

Why not watch TV, or surf the Internet, or play a computer game, or read a book?

Why not spend the time getting ahead at work?

All these questions plague me every time I sit down to write. They give me plenty of reasons not to develop a regular writing habit, plenty of reasons to find something more productive to do with my time. And by more productive, they mean pretty much anything else.

But the compulsion to share my words is still there.

Because none of those writers whose words are so much more beautiful than mine, so much more succinct, so much more prolific is writing the words I want to read. None of them is sharing the messages that rattle around inside my skull, making a ruckus that doesn’t let up until I turn on my computer and let them out. They write what they want to read, instead, the messages making a ruckus inside their skulls.

So courage, the kind of quiet everyday courage I like to celebrate, goes largely unspoken, largely uncelebrated, and nobody seems to miss it. Because those who don’t value it don’t care, and those who do are too busy living it to read about it.

In large part, writing about it is my way of learning to live it. When my own courage fails, I can write about it here and maybe figure out how to do better next time.

Maybe, from time to time, somebody will read my words, find wisdom in them, and teach them to somebody else. Or maybe not.

Either way, I’ll be here, sharing the words I want to read.

What about you? What do you feel compelled to do? Why?