Natalie Ann Holborow

Oh, hello January: that annual festival of guilt and overcommitment where we try to become better versions of ourselves. This might look like promising to eat less chocolate, do more burpees and tell ourselves that this is the year we finally write that great novel that’s been in us all along.

Come Easter and it’s all forgotten about, glutted on Creme Eggs and barely more than a couple of lines written since before the previous Christmas.

The joy of writing isn’t in punishing yourself for what you haven’t done – it’s in embracing what you can do and enjoying those moments that add up to something brilliant. So, rather than set yourself up for a year of frustration, let’s focus on intentions, not resolutions. Intentions are kinder, more forgiving, and much better at surviving the inevitable chaos of life.

Here are a few examples to get you started (you can eat Creme Eggs while you write, by the way. No judgement here).

1. Reconnect with the child you were (and the stories you told)

Writing wasn’t always a serious business. Once, it was something you did for fun: the pure delight of making up stories, jotting down poems, or keeping a journal just because it felt good to put words on a page. My teenage diaries and notebooks are testament to this: I clearly didn’t care about what I was writing, I just bloody loved doing it (I even, in one of my teenage diaries, have a sketch of myself one day signing books at Waterstones, which was the dream. As cringeworthy as those diaries are, they remind me that those dreams aren’t as ridiculously out of reach as they seem at the time).

This year, make it a priority to reconnect with that version of yourself. Start by remembering how your younger self approached writing; not as a task but as a game. Back then, you didn’t care about market trends or structural integrity. You weren’t worried about whether your protagonist’s motivations were sufficiently nuanced. You wrote because you wanted to, because it felt good to let your imagination run wild.

To tap into this, you need to silence the voice in your head that demands perfection. The one that insists every word must be polished, every draft a masterpiece. Forget about the critics, real or imagined. Turn off the inner editor who insists on fixing every sentence before you’ve even finished it. Write as if no one will ever see the work. Write as if you’re the only person in the world who needs to understand it.

Try this exercise: sit down and start a story with no plan, no purpose, and no pressure. Don’t outline. Don’t edit. Don’t even think. Let your fingers move on the keyboard or your pen dance on the page, and see what comes out. Maybe it’ll be a short story about a sentient toaster. Maybe it’ll be a love letter to your dog. Maybe it’ll be nonsense. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you let yourself play.

Play is the operative word here. Writers often forget that their craft can be fun, that it doesn’t always have to be about deadlines or word counts. Children understand this instinctively. They don’t build sandcastles because they want to win a prize for architectural brilliance. They do it because the act of creating is its own reward.

Your inner child also has an enviable quality that most adults lose: the ability to be completely absorbed in the moment. When a child tells a story, they don’t stop halfway through to question whether it’s realistic. They don’t second-guess their vocabulary or agonise over plot holes (my old notebooks are filled with them). They’re fully immersed, alive in the world they’re creating. This is the energy you want to channel in your writing.

Reconnecting with your inner child isn’t about regressing or shirking responsibility. It’s about remembering what drew you to writing in the first place. It’s about stripping away the layers of self-consciousness and rediscovering the pure, unfiltered joy of putting words on a page.

This isn’t to say you should abandon craft or ambition entirely – those things have their place. But let them come later, after you’ve had your fun. Start with play. Start with freedom. Start with the audacity to write like no one’s watching.

2. Dare to show your writing (yes, even the embarrassing bits)

To write is to live in a private room, but to grow as a writer is to invite someone in. A trusted reader, a guide, a mentor – someone who can hold your work without crushing it, who will tell you precisely what they see through their eyes.

Asking someone to read your work feels like standing naked in front of a room full of strangers and yelling, “Well? What do you think?” It’s a vulnerable, awkward, sweaty-palmed kind of experience, and most of us would rather gnaw our own arm off than do it. But the truth is that you can’t improve without outside perspective, no matter how brilliant you are (and I’m sure you are). We all benefit from feedback that’s constructive, honest but kind. It’s a key part of the editing process.

Start small. Show your work to someone you trust – your best friend, your partner, your dog (though their critique might lack nuance. My dog just chases the cursor). Ask them for specific feedback: “Does this make sense? What does this make you feel?” 

The more focused your questions, the more helpful their answers will be.

And if you’re ready to take the next step, find a writing group. Yes, it’s intimidating. Yes, you’ll feel like an imposter. But remember, everyone else in that group feels exactly the same way. Sharing your work in these spaces can be transformative, not just because of the feedback you’ll receive, but because of the solidarity you’ll find.

3. Step outside your comfort zone: attend a writing workshop

There is a peculiar intimacy to a workshop, sitting in a circle of strangers, each holding their tentative offerings. There’s the unspoken question everyone carries (“Is this any good?”) and the risk of handing over a piece of yourself, knowing it will be pulled apart, word by word.

It is a sacred discomfort. Your voice might tremble as you read aloud, your story or poem now somehow naked in front them. But there’s release in it, too: the moment you let your words go and become real, breathing things.

Workshops put you face-to-face with other people who get it; who understand the weird, wonderful agony of trying to turn a half-formed idea into something worth reading. You’ll hear their stories, their poems, their half-finished essays, and suddenly realise you’re not alone. They’re wrestling with the same doubts, the same creative roadblocks. And hearing their work – not polished, but raw and honest – will remind you that writing isn’t about perfection. It’s about showing up, again and again, and doing the work.

This year, make it a point to find a workshop that speaks to you. It could be a local group at the library, a weekend retreat in the countryside, or an online course led by a writer you admire. Don’t get hung up on whether you’re “good enough” to attend. Newsflash: no one there has it all figured out, and they’re not expecting you to either.

Workshops are not about arriving fully formed. They’re about showing up as you are, with all your doubts, rough drafts, and questions, and trusting the process. You might walk in with a shaky piece of writing and walk out with something that surprises you. Better yet, you’ll walk out with the confidence to keep going.

Last year, I worked with Mari Ellis Dunning on our Writing Women workshop and formed a small but supportive community of writers who celebrate each other’s successes and have a safe space to ask questions.

This year, see if you can find that same sort of space for yourself.

4. Set SMART writing goals (and stick to them)

There’s a certain masochism to the way writers set goals: Write a novel in three months! Land an agent by summer! Win a prize by December! Ambitious, yes, but also wildly unrealistic – and a fast track to burnout.

This is where SMART goals come in. They’re not as glamorous as dreaming about bestseller lists, but they work. SMART:  Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Relevant, and Time-bound – is the antidote to creative chaos. It turns wishful thinking into something you can actually achieve.

Start with specificity. “Write more” is meaningless. Does it mean a novel? A blog post? A haiku? Nail it down. Write 500 words a day is better. Then make it measurable. Track your progress. Seeing those word counts add up is motivating, and it reminds you you’re getting somewhere, even if it’s slow.

Now, let’s make them achievable. Be honest with yourself. You’re not writing War and Peace in a month, so don’t set yourself up to fail. Instead, stretch just enough. Aim for relevance, too. Don’t waste time on goals that don’t align with what you actually want. Want to write a memoir? Set aside short stories for the time being unless they feed that bigger vision.

Finally, your goals need to be time-bound. A deadline turns “someday” into something real. Finish my draft by June makes writing a priority, not an afterthought. For example, I’d never even have written a first paragraph on wild running if I didn’t have a tight deadline of May.

While SMART goals aren’t sexy, they get the job done. They strip away the drama and give you clear steps to follow. Set goals you can actually hit. Do the work. Celebrate the wins. And maybe, just maybe, this will be the year those big dreams start to feel a little less out of reach.

But please, no beating yourself up when things don’t go to plan. No comparing yourself to that prolific author who seems to write a book a year with minimal effort (spoiler: they just haven’t posted about the rejections and the messy bits). Just set your intentions and see where they take you.

Now go and get started. Or don’t. Maybe have a cup of tea first. You’re a writer, so you’ll figure it out. You always do.