Reading, Writing, Becoming.

A memoir. 2025.

At the start of 2025, I set myself a challenge: try a new genre every month, both in reading and writing.

“Why on earth would you do that?” I hear you asking. Honestly, I’ve been asking myself the same question all year. The joy (or curse) of setting yourself a public challenge is that you bully yourself into a habit. To save face, you must keep going. But the truth is, I was stuck.

Stuck in myself. Stuck in my writing. I could list the ‘stucks’ but its Christmas so lets not be depressing.

I’d written a novel and reached that dreaded stage: better, but still not publishable. Unlike Elizabeth Gilbert, I didn’t have the savings to vanish abroad for a year. (I tried that in my twenties and came back with stories, but alas without a hunky Brazilian.)

Each new genre taught me technical skills that improved my writing such as editing and use of language. But the bigger lessons were emotional: daring to put myself out there, learning to be braver, learning to show more of me.

My process went something like this:

1. Have a minor nervous breakdown (Why am I doing this? Who even cares?)

2. Read a mountain of books in that genre. (2 or 3 books)

3. Another nervous breakdown due to comparing my self to the greats.

4. Decide I’ll probably suck anyway, so I might as well just do it badly and get it done.

5. Pick up my trusted fountain pen. (or as some of my students like to call it - my boring quill)

6. Produce work no one else can read (who needs a manuscript vault when you have dyslexia?).

7. Type it up and edit, edit, edit.

8. Post on Substack.

9. One more panic attack for good luck!

10. Brace for ridicule.

And then… nothing catastrophic happens. In fact, sometimes people even like it.

That fear of being seen, of making myself smaller for others’ convenience, I know it’s familiar to many people. But art whether writing, dance, or painting forces us to stop being only what others need.

Which (randomly, but stay with me) brings me to AI.

One of the questions I get asked all the time is, “Do you use AI to write your stories?” And like any artist who’s poured an almost-obsessive amount of time into their craft, that question can spark the sudden urge to put down the peace-and-love poster and punch someone in the face.

Thankfully, what usually comes out instead is a measured, slightly academic lecture explaining that I think they’re missing the point. The purpose of art (especially writing) is the process.

That messy, maddening, glorious journey where you discover who you are, what you want to say and how you want to say it. That all gets discovered during the process of creating something. Anything. Even if its rubbish.

AI shortcuts that. Sure, you can produce art with it, but the adventure, the lessons, the stories you gather along the way are lost. Michael Palin once wrote that air travel shrink-wrapped the world, made it neat and small. By travelling overland, he found the world bigger, richer, more adventurous.

I feel the same about AI and creativity. Yes, you can still produce something, but the journey is missing.

This genre challenge also gave me something I wasn’t expecting, community.

Due to how many amazing people were helping me out along my journey, I started a guest series where other writers share their favourite books and advice. I took classes in poetry and thrillers, joined literary groups, even dance classes. By mid-year, I’d grown bold enough to apply for writing scholarships. And, miracle of miracles, I got one. I’m now doing a Creative Writing master’s. Go me.

Exploring my inner self has sharpened how I see the outer world. People seem kinder. Colours brighter. Life itself more alive. You’ve probably seen the phrase: “Earth without art is just ‘eh.’” Well, I believe it.

People are better with art in their lives.

Communities are better with art.

The world is better with art. (Yeah… I went there!)

And yet, considering how obsessed we are with beauty, we often forget that beauty alone doesn’t arrive on command. It comes when we’ve put in the hours, the patience, the unglamorous practice.

Discipline and dedication shapes us into vessels wide enough to hold it. The truth is, beauty isn’t a lightning bolt, it’s a slow accumulation of mornings at the desk, of failures rewritten, of showing up even when you’d rather walk away. But discipline without joy hardens into duty, and that’s where play comes in.

Play is not trivial. It’s the soul’s deepest need, the thing that keeps the work alive. Creation is its natural destination. When you give yourself permission to play, to write a sentence with no purpose, to sketch a doodle, to dance in your kitchen, to test a voice you’re not sure will work, you open a door that discipline alone cannot unlock.

So go on. Play.

Make something just because it delights you to try.

The paradox is that it’s often in those moments of unguarded play that beauty slips in quietly, sits beside you, and reminds you why you started in the first place.