A few weeks ago, I started writing my morning pages by hand after typing them for several months. Julia Cameron suggests writing them by hand for several reasons, but I’d always been too embarrassed of my handwriting to try. I enjoyed the process, and even came to (almost) like my handwriting, but yesterday, I went back to typing.

The nice thing about returning to something is that you experience it with a new perspective. As soon as I started typing it just felt right, and I spent all of my 750 words trying to figure out why. I’m sure part of it is that I’m still more comfortable typing than I am writing. It’s familiar; comforting. I didn’t think that was the whole reason, though.

As I continued to type I realized that I was doing so with a rhythm that wasn’t totally necessary. I realized that I was nodding my head, shifting my body a little. When I stopped typing for a few seconds, I noticed that my hands still wanted to move—to find something; conduct something. I realized that typing, for me, felt like beat-making.

A hundred words later, I noticed that I could almost hear the ambient music I might put underneath some spoken word. Some subtle tones just to add texture. A sharp cello as drama increased. An ensemble reaching a crescendo as my energy started to rise. When it did, my movements were more forceful, too. I felt energy running through me, and it felt good.

I don’t have much more to say on it right now, and I don’t want to turn this into a whole thing, but it felt powerful enough to me that I wanted to write it down. Profound enough that I’m going to stick with typing. I hadn’t realized just how much the act of typing itself—separate to getting the words out of my head at all—gives me life.

I’ve never really set a New Year’s resolution, and I don’t plan to now, either. Around about this time last year though, I did decide to start writing morning pages again, and ended up sticking with it.

A few weeks into writing morning pages, I started to riff on some ideas from the past that I hadn’t brought into the world. They combined with other ideas on the page, and then morphed into something new: a love letter to California, told through binaural audio and slow observational poetry. A love letter that I’m actually writing.

A few months in, I was beginning to explore what writing meant to me in general. I started writing about writing, about reading and about storytelling. I unearthed something I knew, but had buried: I was supposed to write. I’ve always been in love with writing. I was supposed to write more. I vowed to start publishing writing online (hello).

A little later my morning pages were filled with questions and musings on how I might connect more of my life with writing. About how I could align my day job with writing. How I could build a community around writing. The stars—miraculously—aligned when an incredible friend, human and leader reached out about working together.

Later again and I’d started to write about my writing practice. About what morning pages meant to me, and how I might connect even more with the practice. I started to wonder what it might be like to write vs. type my pages... and then I actually started writing them... and through doing so healed a stubborn wound related to my handwriting.

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I could go on. There are so many other moments in between those above, but the point is this: it all started with a humble commitment to just write morning pages every day. You could call that a resolution, but I didn’t think of it that way at the time. It wasn’t some grand idea or ambition. If anything, it felt like the opposite—something small; simple.

Writing morning pages changed my life in both big ways and small ways. I didn’t need to set a resolution to “write a love letter to California,” “start publishing my writing online,” “align my life and work with writing,” or “start writing by hand, in cursive.” I didn’t even know those were things that I wanted back then. Like, I didn’t really know.

Our ambitions unfold. They morph and change and they glom together with others, and that’s great. We needn’t wait to start something new. We needn’t declare those things as having failed or succeeded. Life is more messy than that. It’s more beautiful than that. Writing, and writing morning pages specifically, helped everything else to unfold.

I guess what I’m really trying to say—to myself more than anyone, but maybe it’ll help you too—is that to the extent you have a New Year’s resolution, it can be small and simple, and it can lead to other things. To be more pointed and to evangelize a practice that I love: it could be morning pages. They do exactly that. They can change your life.

I’m working through what the next evolution of this daily blog might (could? should?) be. If you’re following along, here’s the last post. I have no idea how many of these posts it’ll take, but hey, a post is a post.

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At one point posting anything at all was a personal challenge, because it was brand new. Now, I don’t feel right if I haven’t yet published my blog post for the day. I’m getting a bit tired of the format, sure, but I know I’m going to publish. I’d post something every day even if I didn’t figure out how to evolve the format. I’m just a person who publishes every day.

Now that publishing any old thing isn’t so much of a challenge, I’m wondering whether the right format (or one format, at least) could be my new personal challenge. The most challenging thing for me to write is poetry, for example. I feel like a total fraud if I even try. I barely let myself think of writing poetry—never mind call myself a poet—but I want to.

There are some things that feel like they can only be expressed through poetry. It sometimes feels like memoir would obviously be the most earnest form of literature, but I’d argue that poetry should wear that crown. I’d probably even argue that some things can only be expressed through poetry read aloud by the author—with feeling, that is.

What might it take to write a poem every day? What would it look like to riff on something through the lens of poetry? To half finish a poem, or to write the same poem a hundred times, playing with language and structure each time? I’m not sure, but doesn’t it sound fucking exciting to find out? Doesn’t it sound like a worthwhile personal challenge?

This was going to be the first idea I riffed on, but of course I was nervous. Steven Pressfield would probably tell me that I paused because of Resistance. He might tell me that poetry is exactly what I should be writing. That I should call myself a poet and that I should sit down and do the bloody work. He might tell me that, and he might be right.

Writing this down feels right, somehow and yet I’ll still explore for a few more days. I’m going to sleep on this idea like I am the others, but this idea makes me feel something that the others don’t. Maybe it’s just Resistance pushing me to explore other ideas, and maybe not. I’m sure of something, though: sometime, somewhere, I will write poetry.

I’m working through what the next evolution of this daily blog might (could? should?) be. If you’re following along, here’s the last post. I have no idea how many of these posts it’ll take, but hey, a post is a post.

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There’s a tension when you’re publishing something like a daily blog (which... welcome) between speed and quality. Between a piece that you can start and finish in a single writing session (which sometimes isn’t very long), and a piece that needs to bake for a little longer.

While I was driving down the coast to Montara today, I started to wonder what it might look like to lean into the latter, whilst still publishing daily. Almost every post on this blog (with the exception of the handful I’m writing right now) are totally distinct stories. What if, instead, my daily blog was just a continuation of a single story.

There’s something interesting/charming/terrifying about the idea of just treating this blog like an append-only draft of something. I’m not sure what that something would be yet, and I’m sure that I’d get bored of the concept pretty quickly, but what if? That’s the question I’m trying to explore, after all. What would executing that idea even look like?

Importantly, I’m talking about something other than diary here. I’m not looking to trade ad-hoc diary for actual diary. There could be something in that idea too, but I’ll save that for another post. Here I’m talking about picking some story and sharing the daily progress until it stops making sense to share it. Would that be fun? Weird? Boring?

The thing I like about the idea is that it could be a good forcing function for landing on some idea that could really be something. I also sort of like the idea that any given day could just be totally weird. A shitty first draft of something. The next day could keep building, or could rewrite a previous day. Something like “changelog as blog.”

Maybe an open Google Doc is the better version of that, or maybe intentionally sharing a changelog as the primary artifact (rather than a hidden tertiary one) could be interesting? Not sure. Unconvinced either way. Fun to explore though. I’ll sleep on it (as I will on the others).

I’m working through what the next evolution of this daily blog might (could? should?) be. If you’re following along, here’s the last post. I have no idea how many of these posts it’ll take, but hey, a post is a post.

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One of the reasons I’ve grown tired of the format (if you can call it that) is that I was trying to be too consistent with it. I’d decided my writing was about moments and memories, and veered away from most else. I told myself that I loved memoir, and some things didn’t meet that bar.

Aside from my morning pages, this blog is often the only writing that I’ll get to do in a day, and I don’t always want to write something memoir-esqe. I don’t always want to dig up the past, and—as much as this pains me to say—sometimes I’ve just had a very average Tuesday.

Some days, I’ve thought about writing something about my day job or an interest of mine—and I’m lucky that this Venn diagram is basically a circle—but it hasn’t felt “right” for the blog. What does that mean? No idea. Maybe just that it felt too goofy next to a short essay about the death of my grandfather. But it’s life, right? It’s all just life; a regular life.

Other times, I’ve thought about sharing something short about some website or podcast I liked. I have done this, in fact, but even then I think I tried to take it too seriously. I couldn’t just say “this was a good listen,” I had to say “this is profound and is a lesson to be imparted.” It was self-important. It was knowingly self-important. I know, I know: barf.

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As I thought about it a little today, I settled on the idea that most of what I’ve posted so far could be considered (something like) diary, and wondered what the compliment to a diary is. Some internet sleuthing reminded me of a concept that I love: a commonplace book.

If diary is inward, commonplace is outward. The things that interest or inspire you. Things that you collect. I’ve always said that I wanted this daily blog to be the place where I plant seeds, but I’d only been planting one variety. I’d neglected the huge variety of seeds out there.

Maybe that’s what I’ve been looking for? Perhaps I should loosen the reigns a bit? I could write things other than moments and memories, but I could also collect the things I’m interested in from others. I could plant more seeds, of more varieties, to inspire other writing.

I’ll just leave the thought here for now. Maybe this is something, and maybe it isn’t. I’m just going to keep (awkwardly; messily) exploring ideas over the next few days, and to do so without being a self-important prick. I like this idea though—it seems... good? I’ll sleep on it.

By the time you’re reading this post, I’ll have published a blog post every single day for 170 days in a row. That’s 170 days where I’ve sat down, without a draft or a backlog, and written something new.

I totally stand by this practice, but I’ll be honest: I’m losing a bit of enthusiasm. This exact approach isn’t working for me anymore, and that’s totally (really, completely) fine. Just as with morning pages, you use the practice itself to figure out what the practice can be. You write every day to figure out what you want to write about every day.

Part of it, I think, is that there’s so much I want to write that doesn’t fit into the current shape of this daily blog. I have a day job and (gestures) life, so I have to think about the time I can dedicate to writing and what I want to do with it. One thing I’m sure of: I want to keep publishing here every day. Something I’m less sure of: what I want to publish.

This post is coming right off the dome (as most of them do) so I haven’t figured it out yet. This will be the most meta of posts. A post declaring that I want to figure it out, absent of any of the figuring, and certainly without a definitive out. I’m just making a start.

Over the next few days (weeks? eternity?) I’m going to explore on this blog what it means to publish a daily blog. What it means to write. What it means to show up. I’ve mentioned that I’m the primary audience for this blog, and that will never be more true than right now.

Writing here for the past six months has changed my life in several ways that I’ll get around to describing properly someday. Now that I’m here, though, I want to turn a few degrees and head off again. I want to see how else it can change me. I never want to get bored of my daily practice; I want to feel like it enriches me and challenges me.

If you’re following along (and I don’t know if you are, I don’t look), I hope that you’ll bear with me whilst I explore what this space is supposed to hold for the next six months. If you’re just starting to read these posts now, I hope the back catalogue has something for you.

I was sat on the couch reading (scrolling) this evening when my wife called out from the other room. She wanted to know something: if I could design any bedroom, what is the bedroom that I’d design.

“Cave,” I answered, not certain how deep we’d go yet.

Apparently, we were going deeper. Way deeper.

What size was the cave?

“24 ft by 24 ft.”

And the height?

“12 ft.”

Too short.

“16 ft?”

Sounded right. Windows?

“Nope. Not in cave.”

I love these conversations that you get into when you’re in a relationship. Sometimes they’re a bit more abstract, like “would you still love me if I was a slug,” but other times they’re sort of practical like this one—even if someone always wants to live in a cave.

I’ll tell you about the rest of my cave bedroom:

• The bed is in the middle of the room.
• At the back is a floor to ceiling bookshelf.
• Either side of the books: storage for clothes.
• Underneath the books: drawers and shoes.
• Small bedside tables (round) either side of bed.
• Large mirror leaning against back-left wall.
• Front-left: Eames Lounge Chair, lamp, table.
• Front-right: large ladder for clean-ish clothes.
• I said hamper next to ladder, but maybe not?
• Maybe a plant instead of the hamper.
• Right wall: big BIG piece of art (painting).
• A rug (runner)... running in front of bookshelf.
• Another rug (oval? Sort of?) in front of bed.
• Double doors at front, right in the middle.
• Oh, the doors are big, old, beautiful wood.
• And that’s it? Or that was it. Not quite done.

It’s not really about the bedroom, though—even if my bedroom sounds amazing and regardless of the fact that caves are amazing in general—it’s about the countless creative hypotheticals that crop up throughout the years of a wonderful relationship (if you’re lucky—and I am).

It’s through conversations like these that we learn so much about one another. We learn about likes and dislikes, preferences, curiosities and—importantly—the love we didn’t realize that we could have toward a slug (and of course we’d love a slug; we’d love them as a slug).

This conversation today reminded me of just how much I know about my wife. Just how much I love my wife. How much she knows and loves me. Whether it’s about bedrooms, slugs or making furniture in the wilderness (just an example), I’m so thankful for each conversation.

On this Christmas Day, I’m going to capture memories of Christmas Days gone by. When I tried to think of memories, I was surprised at how few I had and at how randomly they were ordered in my memory. I won’t try to put them in perfect order here, I’ll just think, write and share.

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I remember sitting on the ground with my red teddy bear, Red Ted (I know), painting his paws with my mum’s nail varnish. I remember my dad recording it on his camcorder. I wonder if that video still exists.

I remember ignoring most of my gifts and instead cutting up a bar of soap with a plastic knife, because “I’m a dentist” and “this patient needs multiple fillings.” I don’t remember why I wanted to be a dentist.

I remember visiting Santa Claus at Selfridges in London. I remember asking for a car (“a real one”). I remember buying Animals of Farthing wood afterwards on VHS, and watching it over and over.

I remember getting two whole bottles of pop to myself as gifts (orangeade and limeade in my memory, but I know that I loved dandelion and burdock). I remember hiding them under by bed for safekeeping.

I remember Christmas stockings filled mostly with clementines, but usually a box of clotted cream fudge, too. I remember, I think, the fudge coming from my grandfather. I can’t remember if that was true.

I remember receiving a toy parrot that repeated everything it heard. I remember my grandfather gleefully telling it to “fuck off,” and cackling every time it was repeated back to him. I remember laughing too.

I remember attending midnight mass on Christmas Eve at St. Stephen’s. I remember not wanting to go, but the deal being sweetened with an early gift. I remember choosing the Meccano race car kit.

I remember my dad revealing that we couldn’t afford gifts one year. I remember his boss buying us bike accessories for when we got bikes “one day.” I remember coming back downstairs to find brand new bikes.

I spent most of my life in England, between the West Midlands and East London. You come to associate Christmas with your entire experience of the holiday, of course—the big things and the small. The food you eat, the music you hear, the stores you (frantically) shop in.

Now that I live in California, in the Bay Area, I find myself missing things that I didn’t really know I appreciated. On this Christmas Eve I’m thinking of a few of those things, and I wanted to capture them here. I’m not writing them down because I’m sad that I don’t have them, I’m writing them down because I’m happy that I did.

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1. The pub. I can’t properly explain it (though I’ll try), but pub is Christmas. They look like Christmas. They smell like Christmas. Some of them have an open fire that feels like Christmas. People are in various states of wrapped-up. The mood is good, the laughter loud, and the lights dim. It’s cozy, and comforting, and perfect.
2. Boxing Day. I’d argue that the day after Christmas in England is the real Christmas. It’s the day where many of the folks who worked tirelessly the day before get a minute to themselves. A day where you eat leftovers, watch crap movies, and eat as much chocolate as you can. The afterglow of Christmas, with a little more peace.
3. Regent Street. Too specific? Doesn’t matter. If you want to feel like it’s Christmas, walk down Regent Street in December. Just writing about it is giving me a strange feeling in my chest. You’re wrapped up warm (as is everyone else), the lights are so beautiful, and every store makes you feel like a kid again. Truly, the best feeling.
4. Christmas Markets. There was something close in New York when we lived there, but even so, there’s nothing like the endless markets across London (and England in general) to make you feel some sort of way. Wonderful food, Baileys hot chocolate, and (in my home town) stall owners fully in character as Victorian merchants.
5. Yorkshire Puddings. Yeah, we could make them (and we do), but on the years you can’t be bothered you could always grab a bag of Aunt Bessie’s and chuck them in the oven. Crisp on the outside, soft on the inside, and filled with hot gravy. There are few things that Christmas dinner needs, but it always needs Yorkshire puddings.

One of my favorite Internet Easter Eggs is the Konami Code, because it’s a reminder that humans build websites—humans who are open to play, and to injecting a sense of humor into Otherwise Serious Things.

This list won’t age well I’m sure (though I hope it does), but at the time of writing there are a couple of websites that bring me the most joy when punching the Konami Code into my keyboard:

• Stripe
• Vercel

Both of these bring up controls that let you manipulate the shader used in their hero graphics. Try it! Visit the links above, and when the page has fully loaded punch in the Konami Code (reminder below).

1. Up (↑) Up (↑)
2. Down (↓) Down (↓)
3. Left (←) Right (→)
4. Left (←) Right (→)
5. B A

As you browse the web, try it from time to time. Pop open the console in the browser’s developer tools and see if there’s an easter egg hiding there. Look for other bits of fun tucked away in unexpected places.

The internet and the web and every website you visit was made by people. People who are building businesses, sure, but people out for their own fun too. People who are wonderful, curious, and creative.

In a world where it feels like we’re often so separated from the creators of the things that we use, easter eggs bring us closer.