From Doom-Scrolling to Done Writing: My Imperfect Plan to Actually Become a Writer

The Confession

I want to be a writer. Or more accurately, I want to be a person who spends more time writing than playing Angry Birds and doom-scrolling through YouTube's endless supply of anti-Trump content. There, I said it.

The problem isn't lack of material or even lack of interest. The problem is that consuming content has become so much easier than creating it. And let's be honest—watching someone expertly dismantle the latest political absurdity feels productive in the moment, even when I know it's just another form of procrastination with a intellectual veneer.

Perfection Is the Enemy of Good Enough

Here's what I've learned about myself: I'm waiting for the perfect moment to write something brilliant. The perfect insight. The perfect turn of phrase. The perfect conditions where I'm not tired, distracted, or halfway through a building renovation.

That moment doesn't exist.

Perfection is the enemy of good enough, and "good enough" is exactly what I need to embrace. A blog post doesn't need to be a masterpiece. It needs to exist. It needs to be published. It needs to be done, even if it's imperfect, even if I could spend another three hours polishing it into something slightly better.

The gap between writing nothing while waiting for perfection and writing something imperfect is infinite. I choose something.

The Minimal Viable Goal

So here's my plan, and it's deliberately simple: I'm going to blog about what I read each week.

That's it. That's the commitment.

Not "write a comprehensive literary analysis." Not "produce content worthy of The New Yorker." Just share what I'm reading and what struck me about it. If all I can manage is a few paragraphs about why The Communist Manifesto isn't what I expected, that counts. If I want to write more, great. But the bar is low enough that I can't talk myself out of clearing it.

This minimal goal accomplishes something crucial: it creates a habit. Writing becomes a regular practice, not an occasional event that requires perfect alignment of the stars.

The 10-Minute Rule

But I want to push myself slightly further. For every hour of content I consume—whether it's a book, an article, a podcast, or yes, even a well-argued YouTube video—I'm committing to spend 10 minutes creating something with it.

Ten minutes isn't much. It's barely enough time to make a decent cup of coffee. But it's enough time to:

• Jot down a few thoughts
• Extract a meaningful quote
• Connect an idea to something else I've been thinking about
• Draft a paragraph for a future blog post
• Sketch out a reaction or counterargument

The math is forgiving too. Read for an hour? Write for 10 minutes. That's a 6:1 ratio that doesn't feel overwhelming but ensures I'm not just passively absorbing information without processing it.

The Screenshot Strategy

I've already started building the infrastructure for this habit. I'm taking screenshots of articles I'm reading and covers of books I'm working through. It started as a way to remember what I wanted to come back to, but I've realized it serves a bigger purpose: documentation.

This year I've read more than I have in years, maybe decades. It feels great—until I realize I can barely remember half of what I've consumed. I've been so focused on moving to the next book, the next article, the next idea that I forgot to stop and write notes about any of it.

Those screenshots are now my prompts. Each one is a reminder of something I engaged with, something that interested me enough to capture. Each one is a potential 10-minute writing session waiting to happen.

Why This Matters

Making this minimum commitment to do something creative with my content consumption is more than just a productivity hack. It's a step in the right direction toward being more creative and curtailing my propensity for doom-scrolling.

Because here's the truth: doom-scrolling feels like being informed, but it's actually just being agitated. Reading feels like learning, but without reflection, it's just accumulation. Writing—even imperfect, brief, good-enough writing—transforms consumption into comprehension. It forces me to slow down, to think, to synthesize.

It makes me an active participant rather than a passive consumer.

The Anti-Perfection Manifesto (Thanks, Ali Ablaal)

I've been working on my goals and habits lineup for the new year, and I kept hitting the same wall: I couldn't get past making it perfect. The planning became its own form of procrastination, a beautiful, organized way to avoid actually doing anything.

Then I stumbled across a video by productivity hero Ali, who suggests something brilliantly simple: start with a trash draft. Not a rough draft—a trash draft. Permit yourself to write junk with no regard for the perfection you crave.

This hit me like a revelation. I don't need to plan the perfect writing practice. I need to write a trash version of my goals, a junk draft of my habits, an imperfect first attempt at showing up. The act of creating something terrible is infinitely more valuable than the act of creating nothing while waiting for inspiration to strike.

So this is my anti-perfection manifesto: I'm going to write imperfectly and regularly rather than perfectly and never. I'm going to blog about my reading every week, even when it's just a few scattered thoughts. I'm going to spend 10 minutes creating for every hour I spend consuming. And I'm going to start every writing session by giving myself permission to produce absolute garbage.

And when I inevitably fall off the wagon—because life happens, renovations run long, and Angry Birds is genuinely entertaining—I'm going to get back on without guilt or drama.

The goal isn't to become a great writer overnight. The goal is to become a person who writes. That's good enough for me.

What Did I read This Week?

Daring Greatly | Brené Br0wn

Daring Greatly by Brené Brown: The Power of the Pause

The Courage to Be Vulnerable

Brené Brown's Daring Greatly takes its title from Theodore Roosevelt's famous "Man in the Arena" speech, and it's an apt choice. The book is about showing up, being seen, and living wholeheartedly—even when there are no guarantees. It's about vulnerability as strength rather than weakness.

But here's what surprised me most about Brown's work: it's not just about leaning into discomfort. It's about knowing when to stop, breathe, and create space before you act.

The Space Between Trigger and Response

One of the most valuable insights in Daring Greatly is Brown's emphasis on the importance of pausing—stopping and giving yourself space and time before you act or react. In a culture that celebrates quick comebacks, instant responses, and always being "on," this feels almost revolutionary.

Brown argues that vulnerability isn't about oversharing or reacting from a place of raw emotion. True vulnerability requires discernment. It requires us to notice when we've been triggered, to recognize when shame or fear is driving us, and to consciously choose how we want to respond rather than simply reacting from that wounded place.

This pause—this space between what happens to us and how we choose to respond—is where our power lives. It's where we can distinguish between a shame spiral and a genuine opportunity for connection. It's where we can ask ourselves: "Am I responding from a place of worthiness, or am I trying to prove my worth?"

Shame Resilience in Practice

Brown's research on shame resilience provides a framework for this practice. She identifies the physical symptoms of shame (that hot, sinking feeling), and teaches us to recognize shame when it shows up. But recognition is only the first step. The real work is in creating enough space to reality-check the shame stories we tell ourselves before we act on them.

How many arguments have started because someone reacted immediately to feeling criticized? How many emails have been sent in anger that we wish we could take back? How many relationships have been damaged because we couldn't pause long enough to separate our triggered reaction from our considered response?

The pause is an act of self-compassion. It's giving yourself time to remember your worth before you engage. It's choosing courage over comfort, but also choosing thoughtfulness over impulse.

Why This Matters for Daring Greatly

The irony is that stopping and creating space before acting is itself an act of daring greatly. In a world that demands instant reactions and hot takes, choosing to pause is vulnerable. It means potentially missing out on being first. It means sitting with discomfort instead of immediately trying to discharge it. It means trusting that the space you create won't be filled with catastrophe, but with clarity.

Brown makes it clear that daring greatly isn't about being fearless or never feeling shame. It's about developing practices that allow us to show up authentically even when we're afraid. And the practice of pausing—of creating space between trigger and response—is fundamental to that work.

The Takeaway

Daring Greatly isn't an easy read if you're doing the work alongside it. Brown asks us to examine our armor, our defenses, and the ways we've learned to protect ourselves from vulnerability. She asks us to consider what it would mean to show up anyway.

But she also gives us tools, and the pause is one of the most practical. Stop. Breathe. Give yourself space and time before you act. Check in with yourself: Am I responding from worthiness, or am I trying to prove my worthiness? Am I acting from courage, or from fear?

That space between stimulus and response—that's where transformation happens. That's where we can dare greatly, not recklessly, but wisely.

Daring Greatly by Brené Brown is a book about vulnerability, courage, and wholehearted living. But for me, its greatest gift was permission to pause—to stop and create space before acting, so that when I do act, it's from a place of intentionality rather than reaction. In a world that moves too fast, that pause might be the bravest thing we can do.

Starting now. Starting imperfectly. Starting anyway.