The Self Shit. Blog Thing.

I didn’t mean to write thirty‑seven stories. It just… happened.

One minute I was sitting there on
September eighth thinking, “Hey, I’ll enter this challenge,” and the next thing
I knew, I was knee‑deep in plot ideas, caffeine, and whatever leftover brain
cells my kids hadn’t stolen from me. I blinked, and suddenly I had a whole damn
library of stories published.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t organized.
It wasn’t sane. I’m pretty sure its mental illness.

It was just me, a keyboard, and the kind
of chaotic momentum that should probably be studied by scientists.

Every day I woke up with a new idea.
Every night I went to bed with three more. If I went to bed at all. The first 3
days I didn’t sleep at all. Then the next day after I slept the entire day. My
brain was running like Rune on a sugar high — bouncing off the walls, refusing
to sit still, refusing to shut up. ADHD kids aren’t the only ones who go feral.
Their mother does too. Especially when she is suspected ADHD by her kids doctors aswell.

Somewhere around story twenty‑five, I
started worrying.

What if I burn myself out?

What if I wake up one morning and the
ideas are gone? What if I lose the momentum? What if I stop writing and never
get it back?

It’s a weird fear — the kind that sneaks
in when you’re finally doing something you love. You find your groove, your
voice, your spark, and suddenly you’re terrified it’ll disappear if you blink
too long. Like creativity is a skittish woodland creature that’ll bolt if you
breathe wrong.

Meanwhile, my kids are giving me material
nonstop. Rune is ricocheting off furniture. Dominic is having emotional plot
twists every ten minutes. Abel is rocking in backwards underwear like a tiny
old man waiting for the world to calm down. Alex is being fifteen, which is its
own genre of chaos. Cyndle is instigating Rune like it’s her full‑time job.
Zoee is wedding‑planning. Kayla is quietly judging everyone while eating
brownies. Hayden is unbothered. Zach is cracking jokes like he’s auditioning
for stand‑up.

And I’m just here, typing like my fingers
are possessed.

But tonight, sitting here with my brain
buzzing and my house finally quiet, I felt it — that little whisper:

“You’re gonna burn out.”

And maybe I will. Maybe tomorrow I’ll
wake up and feel like a wrung‑out dishrag. Maybe I’ll stare at a blank screen
and feel nothing. Maybe my brain will go, “We’re done, thanks for playing.”

But maybe burnout isn’t the enemy. Maybe
it’s just a sign that I’ve been alive, awake, creating, pushing, trying. Maybe
it’s proof that I care enough to worry.

I wrote thirty‑seven stories because
something in me finally clicked. Something finally said, “Hey, you can do
this.” Something finally felt like mine.

And yeah, I’m tired. Yeah, I need sleep.
Yeah, I’m scared I’ll lose the spark.

But tonight, I’m choosing to believe
something else:

The spark isn’t gone. It’s just resting.
Like a cat. Or me after chasing Rune through a grocery store.

Tomorrow, when I wake up — whether I
write or don’t write, whether I publish or don’t publish — the stories will
still be there.

Because they’re not coming from a phone.
They’re coming from me.