A new year, a new opportunity to fail well as artists and writers
Let's go for it! 52 weeks of creative momentum, starting now
It’s 2026, and I am excited to launch a new challenge. 52 Weeks of Creative Resilience. I loved taking on the AYTL Experiment and thought … why not turn that on its head? Instead of focusing on how little time we have left (a beautiful and important thing to do), let’s focus on what we can create in a year that will no doubt need our collective gifts more than ever. Let’s embark on a year of creativity in the face of destruction.
If you’d like to participate in this year-long challenge, simply follow along and let us know how it’s going in the comments. Buy a new notebook or sketchpad and prepare to make at least 52 entries. If you can (I’m not sure I can, but I’ll try), use this notebook or sketchpad or file for this and this alone. Finally, if you can, consider a paid subscription to support this project and my work, which will include live check-ins (newly scheduled, staggered for varying schedules) and support.
Here we go …
So this is week one of a new year. Let’s begin with the beginning.
The Beginner’s Mind.
When I began studying to teach yoga some years ago, a mentor told me that “beginner’s mind” was more valuable than years, even decades, of experience. As someone who works in academia, I immediately needed to know more.
“It’s the most awkward and uncomfortable space, which is why it’s the most instructional,” she said.
To put this in context, imagine balancing on one foot for the first time (or the first time in years), with the other leg extended back and and your arms not helping the situation by reaching forward. You wobble, wonder if you’ll soon faceplant. Your standing foot feels somehow smaller, less stable than you remember, and you either remain in this liminal state of constant self-correction, balanced and upright, or you actually do faceplant on the ground (hopefully, and more likely, you catch your fall).
Do you go down chuckling or cursing?
The willingness to fall is “beginner’s mind.” How you react to that fall is the lesson.
The willingness to fall = the willingness to laugh at ourselves and catch the self-important commentary in our heads in check. It’s a call to humble up and pay attention to what we don’t know.
We need to remember how much we learn when we allow the adjustments and awkward steps. While I’m pretty disciplined when it comes to my mental and physical exercise (largely yoga, qigong, and meditation), and I’m dedicated to writing, visual art has never been my forte.
Not long ago, I asked for the small pieces of mirrored glass to be passed down … again. A lovely woman named Annette and I were hoarding the mirrored glass, and for good reason. It was brilliant at correcting our errant ways. I glued the little triangles and diamonds everywhere my pattern wasn’t working.
The art class we were all taking instructed us to make our own Turkish-style lamps. This involved playing with patterns, choosing our colors, and meticulously (or not) gluing small pre-cut glass pieces to an orb. For the truly brave, there were a variety of beads that we could add with tweasers or smoosh in (delicately place) with our hands. My artist husband by my side, we laughed at how messy my station was and how many beads I was dropping on the floor.
The workshop leaders gave us baklava and coffee, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I ingested a bead or two.
In our mid-forties, Chris and I often take art classes together. Most often, Bob Ross painting classes, which work with oils (van dyke brown, sap green, yellow ochre). Sometimes, we’ll sign up for a watercolor class that is slightly more forgiving. Chris is an artist, again, so for him, it usually results in something spectacular. For me, the end result is a cluster of happy accidents and lessons learned. At the end, always, is a story.
Ultimately, though, I love this space. And I find the older I get, the less often I feel the novelty of not knowing what the fuck I’m doing. It’s amazing.
As a writer, I take any visual art I try less seriously, laughing more and agonizing less over my mistakes. But I often find, too, that after these art classes, I can return to a slightly freer sense of creativity in my writing.
All this to say, I recommend finding something that will allow you to be totally awkward; find something positively challenging. And when you tackle the challenge, do so from a place of pure exploration—a childlike letting go.
Find joy in laughing at yourself, allow a stumble or even a fall. It’s an instructional and powerful practice for anyone, especially an artist.
This leads into my first prompt of the year. Week 1, a daily prompt.
Note: This a CNF prompt, but adapt as you see fit and try to do it at least once this week. Maybe every day. Zoom in, enjoy, get weird. Aim fo 250 words, 20 minutes of your day. Interpret it to fit any artistic medium. Play. Be willing to fall. Try it out …
I’ll discuss design thinking for writers next week. In the meantime, here are a few posts I hope you find inspiring. (BTW - If you were in bed by 9 p.m. like me on the 31st and are up ridiculously early, join me here.)
