I hit 100 jots last week. Not a massive number in absolute terms, but it felt significant—like crossing a threshold where something fundamental shifts. I wanted to write about this journey because I think there's something worth sharing in how the experience unfolds.
The First 10 Jots: Pure Anxiety
Your first jot is terrifying. You stare at the blank screen wondering if anyone will read it. What if it's boring? What if people judge you? What if you're not smart enough, not witty enough, not enough?
I remember my first post being roughly 47 words about why I built Jottings. I edited it six times. Hit publish. Immediately questioned every word choice. Refreshed the page three times to make sure it was actually there.
Those first ten jots were me finding the nerve to even be visible. Each one was a small act of showing up. Some felt like genuine thoughts; others felt like I was performing what I thought a "founder voice" should sound like. The weird part? Both taught me something.
What I didn't realize was that publishing those ten jots—imperfect, uncertain, and all—was the real work. The actual thinking and writing mattered less than the commitment to do it repeatedly.
The Awkward Middle (Jots 20-50): The Momentum Trap
Around jot 25, something unexpected happened. I started having thoughts specifically because I was writing regularly. My brain knew this was the container I was using to think out loud. Ideas I would have otherwise forgotten became jots.
But this phase was also awkward. I had enough audience to worry about consistency but not enough momentum to feel like I was building something. Some days I'd force a post because I felt like I "should." Other days I'd skip writing because nothing felt meaningful enough to share.
The middle is where you question everything. Is this worth doing? Does anyone actually care? Why am I spending time on this when I could be coding?
I discovered something crucial here: consistency matters more than quality. Not in the "spray and pray" way, but in the sense that regular thinking and writing compounds. You start to see patterns. You develop perspective. Your voice emerges from repetition, not from trying to sound like someone else.
Jots 30-50 are where most people quit. They're not exciting. They're not being celebrated. They're just... Tuesday's thoughts. But they're also where the habit actually forms.
Finding Your Voice (Jots 50-75): The Breakthrough
Something shifted around jot 55. I stopped writing for people and started writing because I had something to say. The difference is subtle but total.
Earlier posts were me being careful, deliberate, audience-aware. These later ones felt like I was just... thinking in public. Less polished. More real. More me.
This is when people actually started engaging. Not because the writing was technically better, but because the authenticity came through. People can sense when you're performing versus when you're genuinely thinking.
I also realized I was allowed to change my mind. One of my jots was essentially me contradicting a position I'd taken three months earlier. I was scared to publish it—worried about looking inconsistent. But it became one of my most engaged posts. Turns out people like seeing actual thinking, including the parts where you reconsider.
Your voice isn't something you find and then have forever. It's something you discover through repetition and refine through attention. For me, it crystallized somewhere between jot 50 and 75.
The Momentum Phase (Jots 75-100): It Finally Clicks
By jot 75, this wasn't a burden anymore. It was how I thought. I'd write about product decisions, personal observations, technical insights, failed experiments—whatever was on my mind. The variety made it feel less like a "content calendar" and more like a genuine collection of thoughts.
Reaching 100 felt different because it wasn't about hitting a milestone anymore. It was about recognizing that I'd built a practice. Something that mattered to me regardless of numbers.
The momentum is real too. Ideas come faster. You're sharper because you're thinking regularly. You make better decisions because you're forced to articulate your reasoning. You connect with people who think similarly because your ideas are actually visible now.
What surprised me most: writing more helped me code better. When you're forced to explain your thinking, gaps become obvious. Design decisions that seemed fine when unexamined fall apart in a paragraph of explanation.
What Changes After 100 Jots
You stop counting.
Honestly, hitting 100 is arbitrary. There's nothing magical about the number. But there's something powerful about recognizing that you've built a sustainable practice. You trust that you'll keep writing. You're not performing for an imaginary audience anymore—you're thinking in public because that's who you are now.
The people who were going to find you have found you. The conversation that matters is happening. And most importantly, you've proven to yourself that you can sustain something creative consistently.
For Anyone Starting Their Journey
If you're thinking about starting a microblog, personal site, or any kind of public writing practice, here's what I'd tell you:
Your first 10 jots will feel awkward. Do them anyway. This is the important part.
Jots 20-50 are the hard part. You'll want to quit. The consistency you're building is invisible until it's not. Push through.
Somewhere around 50-75, your voice will emerge. You won't create it deliberately—you'll discover it through the act of writing repeatedly.
By 100, it stops being a project and becomes a practice. And that's when the real benefits start compounding.
You don't need anyone's permission to think out loud. You don't need to be famous or have a specific expertise. You just need to show up repeatedly with genuine thoughts.
The best time to start writing was yesterday. The second best time is today.
I'm curious what the next hundred jots will reveal.