I’ve started and stopped and started and discarded so many random drafts. I keep feeling like I should write something, keep feeling that familiar itch, yet when it comes to actually sitting down and doing it I find myself at a loss. What should I write about? After years as a journalist plotting out the elements and flow of pieces, determined to file the cleanest copy an editor could possibly receive, I get annoyed when I start something without knowing where it’s going.

I used to assume that my habit of outlining pieces—bullet-pointing ideas, concepts or phrases—comes from being organised (even though the clutter in my flat would suggest otherwise). It only recently hit me that this practice is likely also a coping mechanism I unconsciously developed to deal with my ADHD brain: some part of me might be trying to be logical and organised, but it’s also because my brain tends to jump ahead to think about the next paragraph and the next and the next even as I’m writing the opening sentence. By quickly writing down the ideas one part of my brain has already raced ahead to plot, I assure myself that I’ve got it all down, so I don’t keep fixating on the words I’ll write in the future and can better focus on the ones I’m writing in the present. Sometimes, after I’ve plotted out an entire piece, I end up struggling to complete it—a tell-tale sign of an ADHD noggin that’s lost interest and is ready for something new to play with. It’s simultaneously a strength (I find it easy to come up with a flow, which can speed my process up) and a weakness (when I end up procrastinating on actually writing the damn thing). It’s also why, as an editor, I really enjoy first edits where I might puzzle things out and shift elements around, but struggle much more to focus on subsequent reads.

This has been quite a gratifying realisation. It makes me feel like I’ve learnt and understood something new about myself and the sort of writer I am. But it hasn’t solved the block I’m encountering right now with my non-work writing.

Earlier this year I was having lunch with a friend who commented on the speed of my writing, deduced from the amount that I publish between the different newsletters I’m involved in, plus the occasional article elsewhere. I told her that, when it comes down to it and I have to produce something, it doesn’t actually take me that long to come up with a fairly clean draft. “I suppose they say that writing is a muscle,” she replied.

I’ve been thinking about that from time to time. I see the truth in it. I’m pretty wimpy and useless when it comes to physical exercise, and my on/off spurts in the gym have likely done very little for my overall strength and fitness, but if writing is a muscle then it’s one that I’ve built and toned over many, many years—starting as a silly child writer of secret stories to my past decade as a professional journalist producing features, commentaries and even a book. In “writing as a muscle” terms I’m probably buff AF. And I’m proud of it.

But recently I’ve been feeling like maybe I’ve stagnated as a writer. I don’t feel like I’m growing or improving as much as I would like. I don’t just want my writing muscle to be built; I want to be supple and limber as a writer as well, to write with fluidity and ease and honesty, to write things that resonate not just once, but repeatedly over time. It doesn’t feel enough to just keep doing the same sort of writing I’ve done for such a long time; now I’m thinking of figuring out new ways to push and challenge myself beyond the familiar.

I started a new writing project some months back, something quite different from the sort of writing I’ve done before. More intimate, more exploratory, more meandering than the crisp, journalistic style I now wear (almost) as a second skin. The first draft is incomplete; I ditched it even before I could finish fleshing out the bullet-points I’d outlined (ADHD brain, see above). I started a second draft with a new flow, then all progress stopped. I haven’t worked on it for a long time. There just never seems to be enough time these days, between Mekong Review and my newsletters and all the other things that need to be taken care of. When I do get a day (or half-day) off, I’m much more likely to end up binge-reading Bridgerton on my phone than doing anything particularly creative or productive with the leisure time that’s been so hard to come by. But I know I’ll return to it some time, and it’s part of my growth to also make peace with the reality that I cannot always be “productive”, and that the rest is part of the process.

At this point, I don’t know what’s going to come out of all this. I just know that I’m not entirely satisfied with where I am, and I want to be better. As someone who’s been quite results/output-oriented, it’s frustrating and also scary to feel like I’m just treading water, stuck with no sudden epiphany or burst of inspiration. But I suppose the thing about working out a muscle is that it’s not usually about sudden breakthroughs, but consistent efforts that build strength and stamina over time. That can be a terribly boring process—but one that will (hopefully) pay off in the end.