This year, my first and only New Year’s resolution is to write something every day.
The first reason to do this is to practise my writing. Writing, like any skill, requires work and is a process of gradual improvement, and the more frequently I take time to put one word after the last in a thoughtful way, the better I will become at it. Just like hitting a tennis ball against a wall. Except I’ll put (almost) every shot I take on the internet, even the ones that have objectively flown hard and fast into the net and may damage future career prospects.
The second reason is this: there is always something to say.
We’re all thinking all the time. It’s a bit like breathing. You can pay attention to it or not, but (hopefully) you’ll keep doing it either way. Left to its own devices, your mind will wander, searching the grooves of your subconscious and finding some unresolved pool of thoughts in which to linger and stew. Exactly where it comes to rest isn’t really up to you, and quite often, the most appealing pools for a wandering mind are those filled with anxiety, shame or guilt.
This is one reason why many people meditate. Meditation for me is a way to gently take control of my thoughts and bring them into the present moment where they can hang out harmlessly. I don’t do it very often. But yesterday, when I had a go for the first time in months, I realised something peculiar.
Since I’ve started trying to create things regularly (be that music, comedy, a blog, a bloody Instagram reel), I’ve had to do the opposite of meditating. I’ve been trying to urge my mind to wander, to allow it to go where it wants and to simply watch and record. I want a smooth, natural and unhurried train of thought coming from somewhere in the space between the conscious and unconscious mind, and at times I’ve been worried that I’m not having enough thoughts to be a good writer.
I suppose that’s the purpose of trying to write something, even when you don’t feel like you have anything in particular to say. It forces you to get better at retrieving your thoughts, tapping into your experience of life and articulating it. Because you’re always experiencing something, and your own experience of that experience is interesting to relate and important to record. Sitting down in front of a blank page forces you to draw something concrete from the swirling zephyr of tangled, indecipherable ideas inside your cranium.
This, in fact, is not the opposite of meditation; it is the opposite side of the same coin. Sit with your thoughts and get to know them, study them, learn the language of your subconscious and interpret it. Master your mind. Then you will be able to be creative at will, thoughtful (but not all the time), and you will be able to turn the tap off without the fear that you won’t be able to turn it back on.
In theory.
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