Have. More. Sex.
This isn't a New Year's resolution post about sex. Really!
I’m winging my way to the sun, surf, and bronzed skin of summer Down Under so, naturally, my thoughts have turned to sex. Just kidding. But after reading yet another article about how people are, almost universally, getting jiggy with it far less often than they used to, I was struck with my regular sense of not quite understanding what’s going on with the world.
There are all sorts of very serious reasons presented for the decline in intimacy, from rising economic stress to workaholism to fewer people getting married to whole generations kinda not bothering. I’m not dismissing these, and definitely not meaning to be glib. But sex is … pretty good. And really, really good for you.
Yet it’s one of those activities that gets bumped down the priority list of modern life, to the point where therapists constantly recommend couples schedule sex. That’s not spontaneously romantic, no. But here’s the thing: sex seems to be something you often don’t feel like doing until you’re doing it. It’s the between-the-sheets equivalent of an early-morning workout. You think of all manner of excuses not to go to the gym, hit snooze three times, reluctantly throw on some workout clothes, brave the bitter chill, and it all feels like a slog. But once you start working out? The chemicals kick in, you feel great, and the glow lasts all day.
As with anything in life, the key is just getting started.
It’s almost January 1. A new year. And, sure, every day is a day you’ve never had before. But there’s definitely something about the turning of the annual calendar that sparks fresh ideas and wilder dreams and a determination to finally get down to whatever business you’ve been meaning to get down to.
It’s also true that January is the ultimate burial ground for well-intentioned resolutions. Gym memberships skyrocket in January and then crash. People ambitiously start diets and fall off the wagon within weeks. I’m no exception to this phenomenon: I can’t recall 99% of the stuff I’ve committed to with deadly seriousness only to rapidly jettison. But I can recall the one resolution I’ve stuck with.
As the page turned on 2022, I vowed to start writing for myself again. For the past 15 years, I’d exclusively written for others—companies big and small, management consultants all over the world, senior leaders across the US. It’s writing that’s often complex and dense and requires assuming someone else’s voice, and it’s important and influential. But it’s not me.
And, in many ways, I’d subconsciously used writing for other people to avoid confronting the truth that I should be writing for myself. I wasn’t one of those people who pumped out a novel at the age of 12 or simply had to write, filling diaries with every stream of consciousness. I was, really, much more mercenary: I couldn’t work out what to do with my life but seemed good at writing and loved to travel, so I fell into journalism. But I then equated writing with work, always. And you get paid for working, right? The idea of just writing for its own sake seemed bizarre, not to mention I had this odd thought for years that if something came to me relatively easily, it was a sign I needed to find something more challenging.
But 12 months ago I started tapping out my daily thoughts (I used the lovely Moleskine Journey app). I really struggled at first—I’d almost forgotten what my writing sounded like, and would tie myself in knots tweaking sentences and generally being insanely pedantic. It was very much the opposite of how you’re supposed to journal.
But one day led to two which led to five and then ten and a few months later I was still at it. And my voice was returning. Not the half-baked Hemingway of my 20s, uselessly trying to write a novel that never progressed past chapter one in a voice that was less The Sun Also Rises and more The Sun Quickly Sets. Not the one I use in my day job, where I ghostwrite about the metaverse and financial inclusion and human-capital management and who knows what. No, it was my voice—the one you read here, in all its infuriating randomness.
About five months ago, journaling turned into writing pseudo op-eds purely for myself. I posted them to my personal website and would grin a little foolishly when I flipped a turn of phrase I liked, from Trump’s “penis-extension plane” to describing losing my father and dismissing my homeland as “deaths of a different kind.” And when I was proud of something I’d tapped out, I’d maybe send a link to a friend because I was hoping I hadn’t lost my touch. The response was kind and, a few months in, I dumped everything here on Substack. And here we are.
I’ve no idea where this will lead—all I know is I’m really enjoying it (and it’s cathartic). I’ve realized writing is, absolutely, challenging—I was far too dismissive. After all, just because I find some writing relatively easy doesn’t mean that applies to all writing—there’s a reason I’ve avoided the Everest-without-oxygen challenge of a novel, both because I’m scared I can’t do it and because I worry, as Hemingway himself noted of first drafts, it will be shit.
But I’m definitely a convert to atomic habits, which may be buzzy these days but is just a retread of a concept that’s been around for a couple of thousand years. “Well-being is realized by small steps,” Zeno of Citium said as he looked back on his life, “but is truly no small thing.” As an approach to sticking with new year’s resolutions, it’s a winner. And maybe that novel is lurking in me somewhere, one page at a time.
A note about whatever this is …
After writing a few thousand articles for newspapers and magazines, I spent a long time trying a bunch of other stuff. I guess I figured what came (relatively) easily must by definition be less valuable, so I wandered in the corporate wilderness, becoming increasingly frustrated and doing work that felt increasingly lousy.
Sometimes with age comes wisdom, and I’ve realized finding something (relatively) easy ain’t a bad thing. So, this is a space where I’m resurrecting writing for myself, on topics weird and wild and wonderful.
Posts will appear when the mood takes me, but I do try to be consistently inconsistent—sometimes it’ll be a couple of days between drinks; sometimes a week. But if you subscribe, you’ll get a email letting you know I’m ranting. Again.