I take on two moods when the year turns. I feel hopeful for what’s to come and I get embarrassed for feeling hopeful. It’s not so different from opening a story document for a reread and noticing that the story actually begins in the middle and that I am, yet again, overusing the word “bright” and finding more ands, which is to say deciding this is not a reread but another revision. Bookselling—another space in my life where I rely on a blend of knowledge, personal taste, and best guesses—is similarly prone to emotional lilts. This reveals itself in new relief during annual inventory, which I’ll help with in a few weeks.
Inventory involves scanning every book in the store. As I make my way around the shelves, I’ll get the dopamine rush of encountering friends when I see books I love. “Hello, Clarice,” I’ll say as I scan Água Viva. I’ll find books I missed when they first came in, my mind becoming a switchboard in the nonfiction room as I scan physics, philosophy, and art. Yet inventory is also a shame tour of sorts: books I’ve meant to read (and haven’t), books I suggested we bring in that have sat on the shelf, no matter how passionate my shelf-talkers or how many times I recommend them. This happens to all kinds of books—the buzzy and the obscure, from transgressive outliers to titles touted as “necessary” by blurbers and reviewers.
Taking inventory of a creative life can inspire similar anxieties, many of which have to do with what I call “the everything else”—publication, funding, and all that, sure—but also fears of stagnation, worries I’ll outrgrow one shell and fall short of reaching the next. When I think of the latter as more of a human thing than a writer thing, it’s easier to roll with because it’s not about art, not a referendum on my creativity, it’s about being a person.
I write every morning and I tend to describe my approach as “no frills.” Yet I recognize that the small details add up. They ritualize writing in a way that fits my life and feels sustainable for me. So in the spirit of a new year, instead of hitting “Reset” I’m walking through a good day at the desk and hoping it inspires similar reflection for you.
I write a few pages in my journal to start. Maybe I’m transcribing a dream or expanding on a sentence I emailed to myself in the middle of the night. I like the quiet, stillness, and space around this part of the morning, the aimlessness that occasionally brings me to a purposeful place. Whatever I write doesn’t have to be good; it doesn’t have to be anything but there. I journal in a hardcover Moleskine and for my first of 2024, I chose myrtle green, which pleases Myrtle, who offered her New Year’s blessing.
When handwriting winds down, I pivot to the computer to draft, expand, or revise. Sometimes I’ll transcribe from a journal. How long I spend each day varies. My best days get me 2-3 hours. Sometimes I have a concrete goal in mind: finish this draft by the end of the week/month/year. Other times, I’m in that hazy dream space of growing a story into an everything-and-the-kitchen-sink draft. Or I’m working from a list of questions that came up during a previous pass. Maybe the open-ended approach seems flaky, but I’ve found flexibility keep me consistently writing. I find it easier to show up and write when I leave room for how I fill that time. This also leaves me—and my work—open to unknown terrain, detours, the unexpected.
For music, I like to keep things vibey and atmospheric. Irv Teibel’s environments series is perfect for finding a rhythm without setting a particular mood. environments are 1960/70s field recordings of natural sounds—so, like, ocean sounds, a thunderstorm, a field at night, a be-in, but with names like “Ultimate Heartbeat” (my favorite) and “Psychologically Ultimate Seashore.” (Things were apparently quite ultimate in these times.) I also love writing to slowcore, spacey stuff. Duster’s “Gold Dust” on repeat is a favorite. Whenever I listen to it, sweetness and possibility seep into the morning and I get a super-peaceful feeling that makes everything feel okay. I’m also very fond of this Iron & Wine cover of GWAR’s “Sick of You”—not to write to necessarily, more for taking a break to look out the window or toss a feather football to my cats.
If I have more time, I might print a draft and work at my bed desk. This is bonus writing time. No computer. No phone. Just me and a draft in a cozy change of scenery. My favorites for marking up a manuscript are Blackwing pencils and gel pens. I keep a stash of colorful sticky notes and fun-shaped tabs close by for flagging questions, color-coding threads throughout a manuscript, and making additional notes—practical stuff, like “more lizard?”
✨Reading Journals. Lists. Books✨
A few years ago, I began keeping a reading journal. Technically, it’s a spreadsheet, but the point is it’s a log of every book I read. I keep track of things like reading dates and who recommended what, but I also write brief reviews. In my notes, I can be as gushy, confused, specific, long-winded, or vague as I want without worrying how dumb or inarticulate I sound, or that I didn’t “get” it, or that I’m being too praiseful. It’s a low-pressure way to reflect without going full book review on everything I read.
I love a list. Lists of stories, poems, and essays in progress. Lists of things I want to write about. It’s a fun exercise: compose a list of subjects you’d write about given all the time and cash to do so. Obsessions, fears, mysteries, confessions, joys, memories, despairs, and fascinations are all fair game. Where do you notice beauty? What do you fear? Think of this as a swag bag of ideas. Something you can return to when the well is empty, or as a reward when you cross a finish line.
Salami dreams…as a treat. Brandon Stosuy’s Make Time for Creativity has been a beacon to me for the last few years. The exercises have been helpful in reframing how I think about creativity, specifically how it intersects with my life. This is the book I reach for when I need inspiration or when I notice I’m showing up at the desk and half-assing the time I spend there. If you enjoy the reviews on The Creative Independent this is a fantastic resource for checking in with yourself. For Christmas, my husband gifted me Rick Rubin’s The Creative Act, which I’m also excited to start.
I move easier into a new year when I remind myself it doesn’t have to come freighted with splashy promises. It can be an ongoing experiment to tweak and adjust along the way, much like writing. When I get distracted by the details and lose sight of the work itself, a creative inventory reveals how I’m working and how I’m slacking. So, for now or for later—whether your writing practice feels sludgy or stalled, or you want a panoramic view—ask yourself: How do I approach my writing?; What would I change?; What do I have?; What do I need?; What do I want? Think of this as a wishlist, plus a brainstorm. Space to dream, with practical steps to move toward what you want.
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"Whatever I write doesn’t have to be good; it doesn’t have to be anything but there." Love that.