Sometimes setting more goals is not the answer
How shifting from goals to experiments can transform your relationship with writing
Greetings, dear readers! The podcast remains on hiatus this week, as I just returned from 10 days in the US, conferencing and seeing family, and I came home to the delightful chaos of house hunting in the Netherlands. Thank you all for your patience and understanding as I navigate a particularly full stretch of life.
If nothing else, let my overstuffed calendar serve as your gentle reminder to extend some grace to your own work selves when life pulls you in twelve directions at once. We so rarely give ourselves the same compassion we'd offer a colleague in the same situation, and I'm practicing that right alongside you this week.
I’ve been thinking about how we set ourselves up for writing, particularly when it feels precarious or stuck. Most of us rely on goals: finish a section, complete a draft, hit submit. Goals have their place, certainly, but they’re not always the tool we need when writing feels brittle or when we’re trying to rebuild our relationship with the work itself.
Sometimes what’s called for is not a goal at all, but an experiment.
The difference matters because experiments shift the emphasis from success to discovery. Instead of asking Did I hit the target? you ask What did I notice? That subtle reframing can dramatically reduce the pressure we place on ourselves and open up space for curiosity rather than judgment.
Experiments are important because you need to figure out what works for you, your brain, and your circumstances. So often, writing strategies fail for us because they weren’t built for us. Experiments allow you to learn what works for you. And placing the emphasis on discovery instead of success allows you to learn without the self-judgment that hinders true progress forward.
Here’s a simple one-week experiment you might try.
For one week, write at the same time each day—not necessarily for the same length of time, and without any requirement about output or word count. The only commitment is to show up during that window and engage with your writing in some way.
That engagement might look like drafting, revising, rereading, outlining, or even writing notes about what you plan to do next. The point is not productivity but observation.
You’re gathering data about your own process, your energy patterns, and the conditions that support your attention.
Pay attention to what shifts. Do some days feel easier to enter than others? Does your energy differ depending on what happened earlier in the day or how you slept the night before? Do you find yourself resisting certain kinds of tasks more than others—and if so, what does that resistance feel like in your body, in your mind?
At the end of the week, focus on assessing the conditions rather than evaluating yourself. Ask what supported your attention and what undermined it. Ask what felt sustainable and what felt draining. Consider what surprised you, what confirmed your suspicions, and what you’d like to explore further.
This kind of experiment works because it treats writing as a practice rather than a performance or a test.
You are not trying to prove anything about your worth or capability as a writer. You are gathering information about how you work, what you need, and how your particular mind and body move through the act of writing.
Over time, these small experiments accumulate because they replace guesswork with self-knowledge. They help you design a writing practice that actually fits you, rather than forcing yourself into someone else’s idea of how writing should happen.
Remember to stay curious long enough to learn something useful about yourself.