The Inner Monologue

There’s a strange quiet that comes with realizing I’ve written over a million words. Not all at once, of course — a million words is the accumulation of mornings that began with coffee and stubbornness, of nights when the cursor blinked like a dare. It’s the echo of sentences that found their place, and hundreds that didn’t.

As I approach my 1000th post — counting the ones queued and waiting in the wings — I’m struck less by pride than by perspective. A thousand posts ago, I was just trying to find my voice. Somewhere along the way, the voice became a habit, then a practice, and finally, a quiet companion.

There’s something humbling about the arithmetic of creation. A million words written means a million choices made — each one a small act of faith that the thought was worth preserving. It’s not just the writing; it’s the living that writing demands. To keep producing, you have to keep noticing, questioning, reflecting. Writing forces you to stay awake to the world.

And now, a new milestone unfolds: my first nontechnical book is selling. Not bestseller numbers, not yet — but enough to prove that the words I’ve been putting into the world are starting to find their own way back. It’s surreal. The difference between writing a blog post and publishing a book feels like the difference between a sketch and a mural — yet both spring from the same impulse: to understand the world by describing it.

I used to think milestones were endpoints. They’re not. They’re mirrors. The 1000th post doesn’t mark completion — it marks continuity. A reminder that words, like people, don’t age linearly. They ripple. They connect.

To everyone who’s read, commented, argued, or quietly nodded along — thank you. You’ve helped me become a writer, not just someone who writes.

A million words later, I’m not done. I’m just finally fluent in myself.