Day 128 – A Thousand words a day

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Beyond the Grind: Why Writing 1,000 Words a Day is Your Greatest Asset

In the modern world of “hustle culture,” we are constantly bombarded with advice on how to optimise every second of our lives. It’s easy to get cynical about productivity. We’re told to wake up at 4:00 a.m., take ice baths, and track our output down to the millisecond.

Let’s be clear: productivity isn’t everything. Your worth as a human being is not tied to your daily tax output or the number of rows in your spreadsheet. If you neglect your health, your relationships, and your peace of mind in the name of output, you’ve missed the point of living.

However, productivity is important. It is the bridge between having a dream and holding a finished product. For writers, designers, and creators, the gap between “I have an idea” and “I have a career” is filled with consistent, disciplined work.

If you want to sharpen your craft, there is one rule of thumb that stands above the rest: write a thousand words a day.

The Arithmetic of Ambition

A thousand words might sound like a lot, especially when you’re staring at a blinking cursor on a blank screen. But let’s look at the numbers. If you write 1,000 words a day, you are producing 7,000 words a week. By the end of a month, you have a 30,000-word manuscript. In three months, you have a book.

The math is undeniable, but it isn’t just about the volume. It’s about the compounding interest of skill.

Writing is a Muscle

There is a common misconception that writing is a magical act of inspiration that strikes only when the muses are aligned. Professional writers know better: writing is a muscle. The more you use it, the stronger it gets.

When you commit to writing 1,000 words daily, you aren’t just filling pages; you are refining your voice. You learn how to cut the fluff. You learn how to structure an argument, how to build suspense, and how to transition between thoughts.

The more you write, the better you get. But there is a secondary benefit that is arguably even more practical: the more you write, the more you have to publish.

The “Publishing Paradox”

Many aspiring writers spend years—or even decades—polishing the same fifty pages. They are terrified of hitting “publish” because they feel their work isn’t “perfect” yet.

Here is the secret: perfection is the enemy of progress. If you are writing 1,000 words a day, you stop obsessing over every single syllable because you have another 1,000 words to write tomorrow. You become comfortable with the idea of a “first draft.” By creating a high volume of work, you give yourself the freedom to experiment. You’ll find that your best ideas often come from the quantity, not the agonising deliberation of a single sentence.

Furthermore, having a backlog of content gives you the leverage to build an audience. In the digital age, visibility is currency. If you have nothing to publish, you have no presence. If you write 1,000 words a day, you have a constant stream of content to share, iterate on, and refine.

Is it Daunting? Maybe.

It is perfectly natural to feel intimidated by the idea of writing a thousand words every single day. Some days, your brain will feel like a dry well. Other days, life will get in the way.

But here is the truth that sets you free: anyone can write a thousand words a day.

It doesn’t have to be a masterpiece. It doesn’t have to be published in The New York Times. Sometimes, those 1,000 words will be trash. Sometimes, they will be the best things you’ve ever written. The magic isn’t in the quality of the words you write today; it’s in the habit of showing up.

How to Start

If you want to make this a reality, stop aiming for “greatness” and start aiming for “completion.”

1. Set a timer: Give yourself an hour. If you don’t hit 1,000, don’t sweat it—just keep going tomorrow.
2. Eliminate distractions: Close your email, put your phone in another room, and silence your notifications.
3. Embrace the “Bad” Draft: Give yourself permission to write poorly. You can’t edit a blank page, but you can always fix a bad paragraph.

Productivity is a tool, not a lifestyle. Use it to build the life you want, one thousand words at a time. Your future self will thank you for the progress you made today.

Day 128 – A Thousand words a day

…

Beyond the Grind: Why Writing 1,000 Words a Day is Your Greatest Asset

In the modern world of “hustle culture,” we are constantly bombarded with advice on how to optimise every second of our lives. It’s easy to get cynical about productivity. We’re told to wake up at 4:00 a.m., take ice baths, and track our output down to the millisecond.

Let’s be clear: productivity isn’t everything. Your worth as a human being is not tied to your daily tax output or the number of rows in your spreadsheet. If you neglect your health, your relationships, and your peace of mind in the name of output, you’ve missed the point of living.

However, productivity is important. It is the bridge between having a dream and holding a finished product. For writers, designers, and creators, the gap between “I have an idea” and “I have a career” is filled with consistent, disciplined work.

If you want to sharpen your craft, there is one rule of thumb that stands above the rest: write a thousand words a day.

The Arithmetic of Ambition

A thousand words might sound like a lot, especially when you’re staring at a blinking cursor on a blank screen. But let’s look at the numbers. If you write 1,000 words a day, you are producing 7,000 words a week. By the end of a month, you have a 30,000-word manuscript. In three months, you have a book.

The math is undeniable, but it isn’t just about the volume. It’s about the compounding interest of skill.

Writing is a Muscle

There is a common misconception that writing is a magical act of inspiration that strikes only when the muses are aligned. Professional writers know better: writing is a muscle. The more you use it, the stronger it gets.

When you commit to writing 1,000 words daily, you aren’t just filling pages; you are refining your voice. You learn how to cut the fluff. You learn how to structure an argument, how to build suspense, and how to transition between thoughts.

The more you write, the better you get. But there is a secondary benefit that is arguably even more practical: the more you write, the more you have to publish.

The “Publishing Paradox”

Many aspiring writers spend years—or even decades—polishing the same fifty pages. They are terrified of hitting “publish” because they feel their work isn’t “perfect” yet.

Here is the secret: perfection is the enemy of progress. If you are writing 1,000 words a day, you stop obsessing over every single syllable because you have another 1,000 words to write tomorrow. You become comfortable with the idea of a “first draft.” By creating a high volume of work, you give yourself the freedom to experiment. You’ll find that your best ideas often come from the quantity, not the agonising deliberation of a single sentence.

Furthermore, having a backlog of content gives you the leverage to build an audience. In the digital age, visibility is currency. If you have nothing to publish, you have no presence. If you write 1,000 words a day, you have a constant stream of content to share, iterate on, and refine.

Is it Daunting? Maybe.

It is perfectly natural to feel intimidated by the idea of writing a thousand words every single day. Some days, your brain will feel like a dry well. Other days, life will get in the way.

But here is the truth that sets you free: anyone can write a thousand words a day.

It doesn’t have to be a masterpiece. It doesn’t have to be published in The New York Times. Sometimes, those 1,000 words will be trash. Sometimes, they will be the best things you’ve ever written. The magic isn’t in the quality of the words you write today; it’s in the habit of showing up.

How to Start

If you want to make this a reality, stop aiming for “greatness” and start aiming for “completion.”

1. Set a timer: Give yourself an hour. If you don’t hit 1,000, don’t sweat it—just keep going tomorrow.
2. Eliminate distractions: Close your email, put your phone in another room, and silence your notifications.
3. Embrace the “Bad” Draft: Give yourself permission to write poorly. You can’t edit a blank page, but you can always fix a bad paragraph.

Productivity is a tool, not a lifestyle. Use it to build the life you want, one thousand words at a time. Your future self will thank you for the progress you made today.

Day 127 – Stop waiting to write

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The Myth of the Perfect Moment: Why You Should Stop Waiting to Write

“A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a work on paper.” — E.B. White

We’ve all been there. You have the laptop open, a fresh cup of coffee, and a quiet house. But then, the lighting isn’t quite right. Or you’re feeling a bit sluggish. Or perhaps you’re waiting for that “divine spark” of inspiration that feels like it’s perpetually stuck in traffic.

We tell ourselves that we are just preserving our creative energy for a moment where we can be our “best selves.” But as E.B. White famously pointed out, that elusive “ideal condition” is a trap. If you wait for the stars to align, you’ll be waiting forever.

The Perfectionism Paradox

The desire for the perfect environment is rarely about comfort; it’s about fear. Writing is an act of vulnerability. When we wait for the perfect conditions, we are engaging in a subtle form of procrastination. By convincing ourselves that we can’t write because the conditions aren’t right, we protect ourselves from the possibility of writing something bad.

But here is the truth that every professional writer discovers eventually: The work is not found in the perfect moment; it is found in the discipline of the messy, imperfect ones.

The Reality of the “Working” Writer

If you look at the history of literature, you’ll find that the greatest works were rarely written in ivory towers or secluded, idyllic retreats.

• Maya Angelou famously rented cheap hotel rooms to force herself to focus, often stripping the rooms of any distractions to face the blank page.
• Franz Kafka wrote late at night, exhausted after his day job at an insurance company.
• Countless parents have written their masterpieces in fifteen-minute increments during nap times or at kitchen tables while dinner bubbled on the stove.

These writers didn’t wait for the world to stop spinning so they could write. They carved out space within a spinning world. They understood that writing is labour, not a luxury.

How to Kill the “Ideal Conditions” Habit

If you find yourself paralysed by the need for perfection, it’s time to break the cycle. Here are three ways to stop waiting and start creating:

1. Lower the Bar: Give yourself permission to write “badly.” The goal of a first draft isn’t to be brilliant; it’s to exist. You can’t edit a blank page, but you can always fix a draft that is already written.

2. Create Rituals, Not Requirements. Instead of needing total silence, perfect temperature, and a specific mood, build a “trigger” that tells your brain it’s time to work. It could be putting on a specific pair of noise-cancelling headphones or playing the same three songs on repeat. These rituals are portable; you can take them anywhere.

3. Embrace the “Micro-Session” Stop waiting for a four-hour block of uninterrupted time. If you have ten minutes before a meeting or while waiting for a laundry cycle to finish, write. Those small pockets of time add up to pages, and pages add up to a book.

The Bottom Line

E.B. White’s warning is a call to arms for every aspiring creator. Your life is not going to pause to accommodate your art. Silence will be broken by sirens; inspiration will be interrupted by laundry; your mood will fluctuate from high to low.

The “ideal conditions” you are waiting for are a ghost. Don’t let your legacy be a pile of unwritten ideas. Write now, write messy, and write anyway. The world doesn’t need your perfection; it needs your voice.

Day 127 – Stop waiting to write

…

The Myth of the Perfect Moment: Why You Should Stop Waiting to Write

“A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a work on paper.” — E.B. White

We’ve all been there. You have the laptop open, a fresh cup of coffee, and a quiet house. But then, the lighting isn’t quite right. Or you’re feeling a bit sluggish. Or perhaps you’re waiting for that “divine spark” of inspiration that feels like it’s perpetually stuck in traffic.

We tell ourselves that we are just preserving our creative energy for a moment where we can be our “best selves.” But as E.B. White famously pointed out, that elusive “ideal condition” is a trap. If you wait for the stars to align, you’ll be waiting forever.

The Perfectionism Paradox

The desire for the perfect environment is rarely about comfort; it’s about fear. Writing is an act of vulnerability. When we wait for the perfect conditions, we are engaging in a subtle form of procrastination. By convincing ourselves that we can’t write because the conditions aren’t right, we protect ourselves from the possibility of writing something bad.

But here is the truth that every professional writer discovers eventually: The work is not found in the perfect moment; it is found in the discipline of the messy, imperfect ones.

The Reality of the “Working” Writer

If you look at the history of literature, you’ll find that the greatest works were rarely written in ivory towers or secluded, idyllic retreats.

• Maya Angelou famously rented cheap hotel rooms to force herself to focus, often stripping the rooms of any distractions to face the blank page.
• Franz Kafka wrote late at night, exhausted after his day job at an insurance company.
• Countless parents have written their masterpieces in fifteen-minute increments during nap times or at kitchen tables while dinner bubbled on the stove.

These writers didn’t wait for the world to stop spinning so they could write. They carved out space within a spinning world. They understood that writing is labour, not a luxury.

How to Kill the “Ideal Conditions” Habit

If you find yourself paralysed by the need for perfection, it’s time to break the cycle. Here are three ways to stop waiting and start creating:

1. Lower the Bar: Give yourself permission to write “badly.” The goal of a first draft isn’t to be brilliant; it’s to exist. You can’t edit a blank page, but you can always fix a draft that is already written.

2. Create Rituals, Not Requirements. Instead of needing total silence, perfect temperature, and a specific mood, build a “trigger” that tells your brain it’s time to work. It could be putting on a specific pair of noise-cancelling headphones or playing the same three songs on repeat. These rituals are portable; you can take them anywhere.

3. Embrace the “Micro-Session” Stop waiting for a four-hour block of uninterrupted time. If you have ten minutes before a meeting or while waiting for a laundry cycle to finish, write. Those small pockets of time add up to pages, and pages add up to a book.

The Bottom Line

E.B. White’s warning is a call to arms for every aspiring creator. Your life is not going to pause to accommodate your art. Silence will be broken by sirens; inspiration will be interrupted by laundry; your mood will fluctuate from high to low.

The “ideal conditions” you are waiting for are a ghost. Don’t let your legacy be a pile of unwritten ideas. Write now, write messy, and write anyway. The world doesn’t need your perfection; it needs your voice.

Day 126 – The ‘we need a plan, and not enough time’ scenario

…

The Parkinson’s Paradox: Why You Need to Fake a Deadline to Actually Start Writing

If you gave a writer an entire year to finish a novel, they wouldn’t produce a masterpiece. They would produce a year’s worth of frantic, last-minute scribbling—preceded by eleven months of intense research into the mating habits of Victorian earthworms and the tactical evolution of the 1920s cheese grater.

It’s the writer’s curse: Parkinson’s Law.

The law states that work expands to fill the time available for its completion. If you have all the time in the world, the task becomes bloated, abstract, and paralyzingly heavy. We don’t write because we have time; we write because we have run out of it.

But what happens when the deadline is invisible? What do you do when you are your own boss, your own editor, and your own project manager? If you’re waiting for the “perfect moment” or the “clear schedule” to start your work, you are waiting for a ghost.

To produce, you must manufacture urgency. You have to trick your brain into believing the ship is sinking. Here is how to create an artificial “plan and not enough time” scenario to force your creativity into the light.

1. The “Public Humiliation” Pact

Nothing creates a sense of scarcity like the fear of looking incompetent. Put your money—or your pride—where your mouth is. Use a site like StickK or simply text a friend: “If I don’t send you 500 words by 5:00 PM today, I am Venmoing you $50.”

When the stakes move from “I’d like to do this” to “I am losing actual currency,” your brain stops dilly-dallying and starts typing.

2. The “Short Window” Sprint (The Pomodoro on Steroids)

We often procrastinate because the task feels infinite. To fix this, trap yourself in a corner. Tell yourself: I am going to work for exactly 45 minutes. When the timer hits zero, I am closing the laptop, regardless of whether I finished the sentence.

By creating an artificial endpoint, you turn writing into a sprint rather than a marathon. You no longer have the “luxury” of overthinking that paragraph structure because you only have six minutes left to get it down.

3. The “Accountability Partner” Ambush

Schedule a meeting or a check-in with someone before the work is actually ready. If you tell an editor or a writing buddy, “I’ll have the draft sent over by Thursday at lunch,” you have created an external deadline.

The pressure isn’t just about finishing; it’s about showing up. When you know someone is waiting for your email, the temptation to surf the internet loses its lustre.

4. The “Zero-Draft” Rule

Part of the reason we procrastinate is that we treat every writing session like a final draft. We edit as we go, which kills our momentum.

Instead, force an artificial “time crunch” by committing to a Zero Draft. Tell yourself you have to finish the entire piece in one sitting because “you’re leaving for the airport” (or whatever metaphor works for you). This forces you to ignore the inner critic and focus entirely on velocity. You can fix the typos later; you can’t fix a blank page.

The Bottom Line

Creativity thrives on constraints. When you have all the time in the world, you have no incentive to be decisive.

Stop waiting for the right moment. The right moment is a myth. The “perfect time” is an illusion that keeps you trapped in the cycle of research, surfing, and doodling. Stop playing the long game. Create a trap, set a timer, and make yourself run out of time.

You’ll find that when your back is against the wall, you don’t just write—you soar.

…

Day 126 – The ‘we need a plan, and not enough time’ scenario

…

The Parkinson’s Paradox: Why You Need to Fake a Deadline to Actually Start Writing

If you gave a writer an entire year to finish a novel, they wouldn’t produce a masterpiece. They would produce a year’s worth of frantic, last-minute scribbling—preceded by eleven months of intense research into the mating habits of Victorian earthworms and the tactical evolution of the 1920s cheese grater.

It’s the writer’s curse: Parkinson’s Law.

The law states that work expands to fill the time available for its completion. If you have all the time in the world, the task becomes bloated, abstract, and paralyzingly heavy. We don’t write because we have time; we write because we have run out of it.

But what happens when the deadline is invisible? What do you do when you are your own boss, your own editor, and your own project manager? If you’re waiting for the “perfect moment” or the “clear schedule” to start your work, you are waiting for a ghost.

To produce, you must manufacture urgency. You have to trick your brain into believing the ship is sinking. Here is how to create an artificial “plan and not enough time” scenario to force your creativity into the light.

1. The “Public Humiliation” Pact

Nothing creates a sense of scarcity like the fear of looking incompetent. Put your money—or your pride—where your mouth is. Use a site like StickK or simply text a friend: “If I don’t send you 500 words by 5:00 PM today, I am Venmoing you $50.”

When the stakes move from “I’d like to do this” to “I am losing actual currency,” your brain stops dilly-dallying and starts typing.

2. The “Short Window” Sprint (The Pomodoro on Steroids)

We often procrastinate because the task feels infinite. To fix this, trap yourself in a corner. Tell yourself: I am going to work for exactly 45 minutes. When the timer hits zero, I am closing the laptop, regardless of whether I finished the sentence.

By creating an artificial endpoint, you turn writing into a sprint rather than a marathon. You no longer have the “luxury” of overthinking that paragraph structure because you only have six minutes left to get it down.

3. The “Accountability Partner” Ambush

Schedule a meeting or a check-in with someone before the work is actually ready. If you tell an editor or a writing buddy, “I’ll have the draft sent over by Thursday at lunch,” you have created an external deadline.

The pressure isn’t just about finishing; it’s about showing up. When you know someone is waiting for your email, the temptation to surf the internet loses its lustre.

4. The “Zero-Draft” Rule

Part of the reason we procrastinate is that we treat every writing session like a final draft. We edit as we go, which kills our momentum.

Instead, force an artificial “time crunch” by committing to a Zero Draft. Tell yourself you have to finish the entire piece in one sitting because “you’re leaving for the airport” (or whatever metaphor works for you). This forces you to ignore the inner critic and focus entirely on velocity. You can fix the typos later; you can’t fix a blank page.

The Bottom Line

Creativity thrives on constraints. When you have all the time in the world, you have no incentive to be decisive.

Stop waiting for the right moment. The right moment is a myth. The “perfect time” is an illusion that keeps you trapped in the cycle of research, surfing, and doodling. Stop playing the long game. Create a trap, set a timer, and make yourself run out of time.

You’ll find that when your back is against the wall, you don’t just write—you soar.

…

Day 125 – Writing Exercise

Down the slope and across the valley, they rode

…

It was a cold day in hell, my father said.

Two men had come into town, men who didn’t look like who they were, murderers.

They said they were scouts for the railway.  We had been told a year before that the railways were going to be passing through.  Some people who owned land would become rich, the town would benefit with a rail head, station, hotels and more people.

Some liked the idea, most didn’t

They’d come to Stillwater Creek from the cities to get away from the hustle and bustle, only to find it wolfed follow them.

The two men visited all the farms along a specific path.  They asked about the other landowners.  It wasn’t until it was too late that someone realised they were looking for one specific person.

My elder brother: Mason Henry.

He was the one who was going to make the Henry name famous.  Study law, practise in the big city, then come home and hang a shingle in town.

Got the law degree, got into a large practise, got one case, and then came home.  Showed us the big city newspaper. Prosecuted the criminal, got him life in jail.  A success by any stretch of the imagination.

He didn’t tell us that he had fled the big city in fear for his life.  The family of the criminal put a price on his head, and he was lucky to survive the first attempt.  He didn’t tell us; the sheriff did, days after the so-called railway scouts arrived.

At that time, Mason was out doing a tour of the farms and ranches being courted by the railways, offering his services so the railway wouldn’t take advantage of them.

When he didn’t come home, we went looking for him, my father and I.  And found him, dead, with the horse standing guard.  Shot as he rode past Devils Range, between the Parson’s ranch and town.

The railwaymen had gone.

The sheriff called on any men who were available for a posse.  We started with twenty.  The Henry name meant something in Stillwater Creek.

The usual words about law and order and no shooting on sight or unless in self-defence, we set out.  It was three days ride to the nearest railhead.  There was nowhere else they could go, unless they were simply running.

Fifteen would ride the track.  Five of us were heading straight to Alabaster Springs, the railhead, in the hope that they believed they had got a head start. 

When we finally got Mason to Doc, he said he’d been dead no more than twelve hours.

There was hope.

…

We’d had our fair share of gunslingers passing through.  The Tuckers were among the first of the few land owners that came out when the West was new, and everything was up for grabs.

Others followed, like my family, the Henrys, and they lay claim to smaller tracts and smaller cattle ranches.  It was before fences, with rivalries and perceived injustices, and eventually the law found its way out, along with the start of a town.

It began with two hotels and a general store, a stable and then the stagecoach.  From there, a sheriff’s office and fences.  Disputes over water rights, and the Tuckers trying to run the new ranchers off their properties.

Tucker’s hands were more than cowboys; they were enforcers.  His leading hand had a reputation as a man who’d won a dozen shoot-outs on Main Street, the closest we ever saw a gunslinger.

The last gunfight I saw, not a month or two back, a card sharp was caught and called out.

We thought it was entertainment.

The sheriff called it murder.

Pa said the card sharp should have stayed on the Mississippi.  Ma said he would’ve died anyway.

The point is, talk of railways, more people moving out of the cities, and opportunists arrive every day.  The Tuckers had an investment in the railways, but their land wasn’t on the direct route, so they were buying up land, and those that wouldn’t sell had cattle rustled, cowboys beaten or shot, and the owners intimidated.

Pa knew who was ultimately responsible for Mason’s death, a message of what was going to happen to me and my older sister, Polly, but he was picking on the wrong people.  He tried going down the law path, but the law could be bought or replaced; it, too, was under threat from the Tuckers.

We were not selling, and we were going to prove that the Tuckers were the people responsible for Mason.  With or without the law.

That’s why Polly and I were in the group of five heading to the railhead.  Dad said it was to protect our interests; Polly said through gritted teeth she was going to kill the sons of bitches.

I said that that wouldn’t help find out who hired them.  I don’t think she heard me.

…

Polly was insistent that I learn to shoot.  Not just a rifle, which was a necessity when out herding and moving cattle, but a handgun, for emergencies.

Pa had taught Polly and Mason, even though Mason never liked the idea.  He had no problem with using a rifle; he helped with the cattle when he was home, and there were plenty of reasons for carrying a gun.  Ma said I was too young, so Polly taught me when we were away from the ranch.

I could use a gun.

I shouldn’t have to.

But it was there.

Just before we slowed down, the horses were just about all in from the mad dash, in sight of the town in the distance, and not far from the rail tracks heading back east.

Alabaster Springs was a big town.  When we were younger, it wasn’t much more than our town.  Now it was a city.  A long main street, several livery stables, half a dozen hotels, two with dancing girls, gambling, drinking, and trouble.

It had grown too quickly, and lawlessness outstripped the sheriff and his deputies, and the good intentions from the mayor, the council and law and order were lost in a tangle of land rights, personal power struggles, and property ownership disputes.

Not even the establishment of three churches and three upstanding ministers vigorously performing the Lord’s work could stop the tide of sin.  Pa said it was too little too late, and compared it to Sodom and Gomorrah. 

Pa said never to go there because a child who thought he was a man was still a child and wouldn’t get treated properly.  Or as Polly bluntly put it, a child or a man would be led down the devil’s path before he knew what happened.

We would find the railwaymen, catch them, and turn them in to the law.

…

Passing Jockheim’s Livery Stable, several sheets of the newspaper blew across the street, picked up by a gust. Once, it had been tumbleweeds.

It was late afternoon, and the sun was going down after a hot day in the saddle.  We were sore and tired, but the day, for us, was not over.

We had a plan.  Hotel by hotel, looking for the men.  We all knew what they looked like.  Who they were.  Faces etched in our minds.

The faces of murderers.

The horses moved slowly. Jackerby, a deputy, stopped first, hitched his horse to the rail outside the Northern Hotel.

A wave, he went in.

Next, Walters, a cowboy from the ranch next to ours, stopped, and did the same.  He went into the Wiseman Hotel.  There was a lot of noise inside, and as he stepped up onto the boardwalk, a drunk was thrown out onto the street.

It was a confronting sight.

A wagon came up behind us and nearly ran over him.

Samson, a new deputy, stopped at the Likerest Casino and Hotel. 

Three down, about a dozen or more to go.

Everyone, on the street, going in and coming out of the hotels, the stores or walking the boardwalk, carried guns.

It was very busy. A lot of men looked dangerous.

In the distance, the sound of cattle in the pens, waiting for the next train.  It was why so many men were in town.

A gun went off, and I jumped, and the horse reared, a little skittish.  Polly was beside me and leaned over to pay my horse on the neck.

Another man, a distance up the street, found himself face down in the street, muddy, churned up, and not a pleasant place to end up.

The gun followed him.

Polly shook her head.  Ma said it would be dangerous for her in a rough town with drunken men used to having their way.  Pa reckoned she could handle herself, but I was there to protect her.

More like it would be the other way around.

The Belvedere.  Supposedly classy.  Or so the advertisements in the newspaper, sent over once a week by stagecoach, said.  Fine dining, fine ladies, fine entertainment, genuine showgirls from back east.  Jack Belvedere, Mayor of Alabaster Springs, owned nearly everything; it was his city.

Pa said he was the personification of evil.

I could believe it.

He was standing outside his hotel, having his photo taken with two of his showgirls.

Polly and I had reached our first stop, hitched the horses and walked up the stairs outside the next-door storefront, the land office.  It was closed.

She brought her rifle.

Now that I was here, the plan of going to the bar and checking whether the two men were inside seemed impossible.

She stopped just as we were about to cross from the storefront boardwalk to the hotels.

“I see them,” she said.

The other end of the boardwalk.  Coming towards Belvedere.  When they stopped to talk to Belvendere, Polly disappeared after telling me to follow them.

She went down the alley and around the back.

I heard them talking.

Belvedere:  “You made good time.  The train will be here in two hours.  Go inside.  Tell Joe at the bar you’ve got a tab.  He’ll give you whatever you want.”

One said, “Thank you, Mr Belvadere.”

“No, Ned.  I should be thanking you for cleaning up what was about to be a big problem.”

He shook hands with them, and they went inside.

Belvedere, in cahoots with the Tuckers.  No surprises there.  He was part of their escape plan. 

I skirted my way around the photographer and Belvedere and went inside.  Just.  The bar was huge, one of several and packed.

The long bar down one side was crowded with men drinking, some in an intoxicated state, some with women hanging on to them, perhaps to keep them from falling over.  Certainly to keep plying them with drink.  Ma had a name for them.  I don’t think it was a good name.

I saw the two men head down the end, and they were met by several others.  A loud voice carried above the noise.  Larry Tucker.  Then I saw the brothers, Sam and Chuck. Not a good one between them.

Larry was the worst, the same age as Mason.  Tried to lead him astray, but Mason had no taste for drink and bullying, or shooting at innocents.  Harry Tucker had wounded several boys from surrounding ranches, covered by his father as shooting accidents while hunting.

They weren’t.  The boys treated him with contempt, where he expected fealty.  We all knew he was an idiot with a rich father.

“Well, well, well.”  Larry had seen me.

Not good.

Not in a bar.

Not after he’d been drinking.  He was a boy who couldn’t hold his liquor.  And that was dangerous.

“If it isn’t little Tom Henry.  Little fish in a big pond.”

He stepped out from the bar, a hand on the gun, a big gun, bigger than most.  Smirk.  Threatening posture.  Daring.  A blink and slight swaying movement.

A drink too many.

A touch too much courage?

A section of the crowd had gone quiet, waiting to see what happened.

“What are you doing here?”

Trying not to alert the two men, but it was a bit late for that.  They were on the alert now and looking worried.

Three men with guns.

But what the hell.  It was death or glory.  “Looking for two murderers.”

Harry Tucker laughed.  “You’re in the wrong place.  Nothing but law-abiding citizens in here.”

He looked around at the people who were now interested in this side show.  I saw several men by the door, closed up, cutting off the exit.

“And the two railway agents standing next to you at the bar?”

“Businessmen.  Buying land for the railway that will benefit not only the Henrys.”

“How does killing my brother fit into the plan?”

“I know nothing about your brother.  But if he’s dead, then he was obviously sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong.  Like you.  I don’t like you calling my friends unsavoury names, Henry.  Leave, or I’ll put a bullet in you.”

He drew his gun and pointed it at me.  It wavered in his hand.  It was heavy.

The next few seconds were a blur.

A gun went off, and I felt a bullet hit me in the arm, the force of it knocking me backwards.  Then several more shots, and as I was falling, I saw Harry go down, the two railwaymen drawing their guns and being shot, the other brothers trying to draw their weapons and being stopped by men behind them, then a gun shot three bullets into the roof and a man yelling, “The next man to fire a gun will die.”

Silence, after I finished sprawling on the floor, holding my arm that was hurting like hell, and bleeding.  I honestly thought I was going to die.  That’s when I passed out.

…

When I woke, it was in a hotel room with an old man leaning over me, looking at my arm.

“He’ll survive, it’s just a scratch.  It’s patched, you just need to change the bandage in a day or so.”

On the floor, there were three bodies.  The two railwaymen and Harry Tucker.  I didn’t shoot him or any of them.  I knew better than to draw a weapon in a place like that.

Belvedere was standing over them, shaking his head.

In the corner, a man with a sheriff’s badge and sporting a blackening eye was standing next to my sister, looking somewhat dishevelled.

Belvedere looked at her.  “Anytime you want a job working for me, just make yourself known to Joe.”

“I’m not a whore.” Her tone and manner dripped defiance. She scared me, most of the time.

“I mean, as a sharp shooter.  That was the most amazing display of shooting I’ve ever seen.”

“Pity she didn’t shoot you,” I said.

He swivelled around.  “Ah, the small fish speaks.”

“You paid them to kill my brother.”

“Correction, Tom Henry, that is your name, isn’t it?  Of course it is.  The family resemblance is unmistakable.  Are all of you Henrys this rambunctious?  I had nothing to do with it.  In fact, I told those stupid Tuckers it would bring nothing but trouble.  And here it is, on my doorstep.”

“You reap what you sow,” Polly said.

“I’m trying to build something here.  Not spend the rest of my life in jail.  Harry Tucker simply misinterpreted what his father said and took it into his own hands to get these two second-rate shooters to kill your brother.  Had you not turned up, I was going to hand them over to the law.  In fact, the sheriff is about to transfer them to Boot Hill.  I’ll send Tucker back to his father with an explanation.  Neither of you two nor any of the Henrys had anything to do with it.”

He looked at Polly.  “Take your brother home, tell your Pa he got caught in the crossfire.  Don’t come back any time soon, or you might get arrested.  Whatever you came here for is done.  Am I clear?”

I could see her thinking.

“It’s done, Polly, no matter what we think.  It’s done.  I’m done.”

She thought some more.  “I get my gun back?”

“Once you leave the city limits.  My deputy will escort you back to Springwater.  All of you.”

“Fine.”

The sheriff said, “I could lock you up for assaulting a sheriff, but I wasn’t wearing my badge, so you weren’t to know.  That’s a mean right you’ve got.”

She gave him a smile, but I didn’t think she was trying to be nice.

“Take them over to the jail house and get them to sign some paperwork, and a report to their father about what happened here.  An investigation into his son’s death has been carried out.  You know the details.” To a deputy by the door.  “Ride out and meet the posse.  Take them to the sheriff’s office.  Make sure they understand the circumstances.”

…

Back home, Pa was not a happy man.

The fact that Polly and I went into a bar, each carrying a gun.

The fact that the moment I saw Harry Tucker, I should have run.

The fact that Polly exercised summary justice in the two railwaymen/murderers.

The fact that I got shot by a Tucker.

The fact that we got caught.

The fact that we might never get the truth.

He was interested to learn what I heard between the railwaymen and Belvedere, but it wasn’t conclusive evidence. But at least he knew the Tuckers were trouble, and he had not prosecuted his daughter when they had sworn testimony that said otherwise. The report had a note from Belvedere himself; the Henrys had suffered enough.

The fact that Belvedere had outlined the facts of the case, and, according to him, Harry Butler had taken matters into his own hands and hired the railwayman to execute Mason, was as good an explanation they would get.

For that, old man Tucker apologised and said he would do everything he could to help the family cope with the loss.

Ma was particularly upset.

A parent, she told Polly, should never have to outlive their child.  Then she slapped Polly very hard for allowing me to go into the bar and for nearly getting me killed.

It was the only time I saw Polly cry.

Other than that, as far as I was concerned, the Lord should be satisfied his work was done.  And eye for an eye. Harry Butler for Mason Henry, though Harry was far from being the same man as Mason.

The Lord, it had to be said, worked in mysterious ways.

The railway came.  We made some money, not a lot, and in time, what happened at Alabaster nearly happened in Stillwater.

Except…

We had the foreknowledge of what was coming and stopped most of it dead in its tracks.

Polly, as if it were ordained, became the first Mayor. She married the sheriff she gave a black eye.

My arm still aches with the onset of winter, a reminder that we don’t always get what we want at the time; it eventually happens if you wait long enough.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 125 – Writing Exercise

Down the slope and across the valley, they rode

…

It was a cold day in hell, my father said.

Two men had come into town, men who didn’t look like who they were, murderers.

They said they were scouts for the railway.  We had been told a year before that the railways were going to be passing through.  Some people who owned land would become rich, the town would benefit with a rail head, station, hotels and more people.

Some liked the idea, most didn’t

They’d come to Stillwater Creek from the cities to get away from the hustle and bustle, only to find it wolfed follow them.

The two men visited all the farms along a specific path.  They asked about the other landowners.  It wasn’t until it was too late that someone realised they were looking for one specific person.

My elder brother: Mason Henry.

He was the one who was going to make the Henry name famous.  Study law, practise in the big city, then come home and hang a shingle in town.

Got the law degree, got into a large practise, got one case, and then came home.  Showed us the big city newspaper. Prosecuted the criminal, got him life in jail.  A success by any stretch of the imagination.

He didn’t tell us that he had fled the big city in fear for his life.  The family of the criminal put a price on his head, and he was lucky to survive the first attempt.  He didn’t tell us; the sheriff did, days after the so-called railway scouts arrived.

At that time, Mason was out doing a tour of the farms and ranches being courted by the railways, offering his services so the railway wouldn’t take advantage of them.

When he didn’t come home, we went looking for him, my father and I.  And found him, dead, with the horse standing guard.  Shot as he rode past Devils Range, between the Parson’s ranch and town.

The railwaymen had gone.

The sheriff called on any men who were available for a posse.  We started with twenty.  The Henry name meant something in Stillwater Creek.

The usual words about law and order and no shooting on sight or unless in self-defence, we set out.  It was three days ride to the nearest railhead.  There was nowhere else they could go, unless they were simply running.

Fifteen would ride the track.  Five of us were heading straight to Alabaster Springs, the railhead, in the hope that they believed they had got a head start. 

When we finally got Mason to Doc, he said he’d been dead no more than twelve hours.

There was hope.

…

We’d had our fair share of gunslingers passing through.  The Tuckers were among the first of the few land owners that came out when the West was new, and everything was up for grabs.

Others followed, like my family, the Henrys, and they lay claim to smaller tracts and smaller cattle ranches.  It was before fences, with rivalries and perceived injustices, and eventually the law found its way out, along with the start of a town.

It began with two hotels and a general store, a stable and then the stagecoach.  From there, a sheriff’s office and fences.  Disputes over water rights, and the Tuckers trying to run the new ranchers off their properties.

Tucker’s hands were more than cowboys; they were enforcers.  His leading hand had a reputation as a man who’d won a dozen shoot-outs on Main Street, the closest we ever saw a gunslinger.

The last gunfight I saw, not a month or two back, a card sharp was caught and called out.

We thought it was entertainment.

The sheriff called it murder.

Pa said the card sharp should have stayed on the Mississippi.  Ma said he would’ve died anyway.

The point is, talk of railways, more people moving out of the cities, and opportunists arrive every day.  The Tuckers had an investment in the railways, but their land wasn’t on the direct route, so they were buying up land, and those that wouldn’t sell had cattle rustled, cowboys beaten or shot, and the owners intimidated.

Pa knew who was ultimately responsible for Mason’s death, a message of what was going to happen to me and my older sister, Polly, but he was picking on the wrong people.  He tried going down the law path, but the law could be bought or replaced; it, too, was under threat from the Tuckers.

We were not selling, and we were going to prove that the Tuckers were the people responsible for Mason.  With or without the law.

That’s why Polly and I were in the group of five heading to the railhead.  Dad said it was to protect our interests; Polly said through gritted teeth she was going to kill the sons of bitches.

I said that that wouldn’t help find out who hired them.  I don’t think she heard me.

…

Polly was insistent that I learn to shoot.  Not just a rifle, which was a necessity when out herding and moving cattle, but a handgun, for emergencies.

Pa had taught Polly and Mason, even though Mason never liked the idea.  He had no problem with using a rifle; he helped with the cattle when he was home, and there were plenty of reasons for carrying a gun.  Ma said I was too young, so Polly taught me when we were away from the ranch.

I could use a gun.

I shouldn’t have to.

But it was there.

Just before we slowed down, the horses were just about all in from the mad dash, in sight of the town in the distance, and not far from the rail tracks heading back east.

Alabaster Springs was a big town.  When we were younger, it wasn’t much more than our town.  Now it was a city.  A long main street, several livery stables, half a dozen hotels, two with dancing girls, gambling, drinking, and trouble.

It had grown too quickly, and lawlessness outstripped the sheriff and his deputies, and the good intentions from the mayor, the council and law and order were lost in a tangle of land rights, personal power struggles, and property ownership disputes.

Not even the establishment of three churches and three upstanding ministers vigorously performing the Lord’s work could stop the tide of sin.  Pa said it was too little too late, and compared it to Sodom and Gomorrah. 

Pa said never to go there because a child who thought he was a man was still a child and wouldn’t get treated properly.  Or as Polly bluntly put it, a child or a man would be led down the devil’s path before he knew what happened.

We would find the railwaymen, catch them, and turn them in to the law.

…

Passing Jockheim’s Livery Stable, several sheets of the newspaper blew across the street, picked up by a gust. Once, it had been tumbleweeds.

It was late afternoon, and the sun was going down after a hot day in the saddle.  We were sore and tired, but the day, for us, was not over.

We had a plan.  Hotel by hotel, looking for the men.  We all knew what they looked like.  Who they were.  Faces etched in our minds.

The faces of murderers.

The horses moved slowly. Jackerby, a deputy, stopped first, hitched his horse to the rail outside the Northern Hotel.

A wave, he went in.

Next, Walters, a cowboy from the ranch next to ours, stopped, and did the same.  He went into the Wiseman Hotel.  There was a lot of noise inside, and as he stepped up onto the boardwalk, a drunk was thrown out onto the street.

It was a confronting sight.

A wagon came up behind us and nearly ran over him.

Samson, a new deputy, stopped at the Likerest Casino and Hotel. 

Three down, about a dozen or more to go.

Everyone, on the street, going in and coming out of the hotels, the stores or walking the boardwalk, carried guns.

It was very busy. A lot of men looked dangerous.

In the distance, the sound of cattle in the pens, waiting for the next train.  It was why so many men were in town.

A gun went off, and I jumped, and the horse reared, a little skittish.  Polly was beside me and leaned over to pay my horse on the neck.

Another man, a distance up the street, found himself face down in the street, muddy, churned up, and not a pleasant place to end up.

The gun followed him.

Polly shook her head.  Ma said it would be dangerous for her in a rough town with drunken men used to having their way.  Pa reckoned she could handle herself, but I was there to protect her.

More like it would be the other way around.

The Belvedere.  Supposedly classy.  Or so the advertisements in the newspaper, sent over once a week by stagecoach, said.  Fine dining, fine ladies, fine entertainment, genuine showgirls from back east.  Jack Belvedere, Mayor of Alabaster Springs, owned nearly everything; it was his city.

Pa said he was the personification of evil.

I could believe it.

He was standing outside his hotel, having his photo taken with two of his showgirls.

Polly and I had reached our first stop, hitched the horses and walked up the stairs outside the next-door storefront, the land office.  It was closed.

She brought her rifle.

Now that I was here, the plan of going to the bar and checking whether the two men were inside seemed impossible.

She stopped just as we were about to cross from the storefront boardwalk to the hotels.

“I see them,” she said.

The other end of the boardwalk.  Coming towards Belvedere.  When they stopped to talk to Belvendere, Polly disappeared after telling me to follow them.

She went down the alley and around the back.

I heard them talking.

Belvedere:  “You made good time.  The train will be here in two hours.  Go inside.  Tell Joe at the bar you’ve got a tab.  He’ll give you whatever you want.”

One said, “Thank you, Mr Belvadere.”

“No, Ned.  I should be thanking you for cleaning up what was about to be a big problem.”

He shook hands with them, and they went inside.

Belvedere, in cahoots with the Tuckers.  No surprises there.  He was part of their escape plan. 

I skirted my way around the photographer and Belvedere and went inside.  Just.  The bar was huge, one of several and packed.

The long bar down one side was crowded with men drinking, some in an intoxicated state, some with women hanging on to them, perhaps to keep them from falling over.  Certainly to keep plying them with drink.  Ma had a name for them.  I don’t think it was a good name.

I saw the two men head down the end, and they were met by several others.  A loud voice carried above the noise.  Larry Tucker.  Then I saw the brothers, Sam and Chuck. Not a good one between them.

Larry was the worst, the same age as Mason.  Tried to lead him astray, but Mason had no taste for drink and bullying, or shooting at innocents.  Harry Tucker had wounded several boys from surrounding ranches, covered by his father as shooting accidents while hunting.

They weren’t.  The boys treated him with contempt, where he expected fealty.  We all knew he was an idiot with a rich father.

“Well, well, well.”  Larry had seen me.

Not good.

Not in a bar.

Not after he’d been drinking.  He was a boy who couldn’t hold his liquor.  And that was dangerous.

“If it isn’t little Tom Henry.  Little fish in a big pond.”

He stepped out from the bar, a hand on the gun, a big gun, bigger than most.  Smirk.  Threatening posture.  Daring.  A blink and slight swaying movement.

A drink too many.

A touch too much courage?

A section of the crowd had gone quiet, waiting to see what happened.

“What are you doing here?”

Trying not to alert the two men, but it was a bit late for that.  They were on the alert now and looking worried.

Three men with guns.

But what the hell.  It was death or glory.  “Looking for two murderers.”

Harry Tucker laughed.  “You’re in the wrong place.  Nothing but law-abiding citizens in here.”

He looked around at the people who were now interested in this side show.  I saw several men by the door, closed up, cutting off the exit.

“And the two railway agents standing next to you at the bar?”

“Businessmen.  Buying land for the railway that will benefit not only the Henrys.”

“How does killing my brother fit into the plan?”

“I know nothing about your brother.  But if he’s dead, then he was obviously sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong.  Like you.  I don’t like you calling my friends unsavoury names, Henry.  Leave, or I’ll put a bullet in you.”

He drew his gun and pointed it at me.  It wavered in his hand.  It was heavy.

The next few seconds were a blur.

A gun went off, and I felt a bullet hit me in the arm, the force of it knocking me backwards.  Then several more shots, and as I was falling, I saw Harry go down, the two railwaymen drawing their guns and being shot, the other brothers trying to draw their weapons and being stopped by men behind them, then a gun shot three bullets into the roof and a man yelling, “The next man to fire a gun will die.”

Silence, after I finished sprawling on the floor, holding my arm that was hurting like hell, and bleeding.  I honestly thought I was going to die.  That’s when I passed out.

…

When I woke, it was in a hotel room with an old man leaning over me, looking at my arm.

“He’ll survive, it’s just a scratch.  It’s patched, you just need to change the bandage in a day or so.”

On the floor, there were three bodies.  The two railwaymen and Harry Tucker.  I didn’t shoot him or any of them.  I knew better than to draw a weapon in a place like that.

Belvedere was standing over them, shaking his head.

In the corner, a man with a sheriff’s badge and sporting a blackening eye was standing next to my sister, looking somewhat dishevelled.

Belvedere looked at her.  “Anytime you want a job working for me, just make yourself known to Joe.”

“I’m not a whore.” Her tone and manner dripped defiance. She scared me, most of the time.

“I mean, as a sharp shooter.  That was the most amazing display of shooting I’ve ever seen.”

“Pity she didn’t shoot you,” I said.

He swivelled around.  “Ah, the small fish speaks.”

“You paid them to kill my brother.”

“Correction, Tom Henry, that is your name, isn’t it?  Of course it is.  The family resemblance is unmistakable.  Are all of you Henrys this rambunctious?  I had nothing to do with it.  In fact, I told those stupid Tuckers it would bring nothing but trouble.  And here it is, on my doorstep.”

“You reap what you sow,” Polly said.

“I’m trying to build something here.  Not spend the rest of my life in jail.  Harry Tucker simply misinterpreted what his father said and took it into his own hands to get these two second-rate shooters to kill your brother.  Had you not turned up, I was going to hand them over to the law.  In fact, the sheriff is about to transfer them to Boot Hill.  I’ll send Tucker back to his father with an explanation.  Neither of you two nor any of the Henrys had anything to do with it.”

He looked at Polly.  “Take your brother home, tell your Pa he got caught in the crossfire.  Don’t come back any time soon, or you might get arrested.  Whatever you came here for is done.  Am I clear?”

I could see her thinking.

“It’s done, Polly, no matter what we think.  It’s done.  I’m done.”

She thought some more.  “I get my gun back?”

“Once you leave the city limits.  My deputy will escort you back to Springwater.  All of you.”

“Fine.”

The sheriff said, “I could lock you up for assaulting a sheriff, but I wasn’t wearing my badge, so you weren’t to know.  That’s a mean right you’ve got.”

She gave him a smile, but I didn’t think she was trying to be nice.

“Take them over to the jail house and get them to sign some paperwork, and a report to their father about what happened here.  An investigation into his son’s death has been carried out.  You know the details.” To a deputy by the door.  “Ride out and meet the posse.  Take them to the sheriff’s office.  Make sure they understand the circumstances.”

…

Back home, Pa was not a happy man.

The fact that Polly and I went into a bar, each carrying a gun.

The fact that the moment I saw Harry Tucker, I should have run.

The fact that Polly exercised summary justice in the two railwaymen/murderers.

The fact that I got shot by a Tucker.

The fact that we got caught.

The fact that we might never get the truth.

He was interested to learn what I heard between the railwaymen and Belvedere, but it wasn’t conclusive evidence. But at least he knew the Tuckers were trouble, and he had not prosecuted his daughter when they had sworn testimony that said otherwise. The report had a note from Belvedere himself; the Henrys had suffered enough.

The fact that Belvedere had outlined the facts of the case, and, according to him, Harry Butler had taken matters into his own hands and hired the railwayman to execute Mason, was as good an explanation they would get.

For that, old man Tucker apologised and said he would do everything he could to help the family cope with the loss.

Ma was particularly upset.

A parent, she told Polly, should never have to outlive their child.  Then she slapped Polly very hard for allowing me to go into the bar and for nearly getting me killed.

It was the only time I saw Polly cry.

Other than that, as far as I was concerned, the Lord should be satisfied his work was done.  And eye for an eye. Harry Butler for Mason Henry, though Harry was far from being the same man as Mason.

The Lord, it had to be said, worked in mysterious ways.

The railway came.  We made some money, not a lot, and in time, what happened at Alabaster nearly happened in Stillwater.

Except…

We had the foreknowledge of what was coming and stopped most of it dead in its tracks.

Polly, as if it were ordained, became the first Mayor. She married the sheriff she gave a black eye.

My arm still aches with the onset of winter, a reminder that we don’t always get what we want at the time; it eventually happens if you wait long enough.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 124 – Setting an internal appointment to start work

…

The Art of the Internal Contract: Why “Just Deciding” Isn’t Enough

We’ve all been there. You close your laptop on a Tuesday night, feeling motivated, and tell yourself, “Tomorrow morning at 10:00 AM, I am going to sit down and write.”

You wake up the next day, grab a coffee, check your email, handle a “quick” task, and suddenly it’s 11:30 AM. The writing didn’t happen. You rationalise it with the classic: “I just wasn’t in the flow,” or “Something came up.”

But let’s be honest: that wasn’t a choice; it was a failed intention.

There is a massive, structural difference between telling yourself you will do something and setting an internal contract to make it happen. Most of us mistake the former for the latter.

The Illusion of “Just Saying So”

When you tell yourself, “I’ll write at 10:00 AM,” you are making a suggestion to your future self.

The problem? Your future self is a different person. When 10:00 AM rolls around, your future self is dealing with new stimuli: a tired brain, an overflowing inbox, a distracting notification, or the seductive pull of “productive procrastination.” If your intention is just a gentle suggestion, your future self will almost always opt for the path of least resistance.

A suggestion is a wish. A contract is a commitment.

What is an Internal Contract?

An internal contract is the psychological act of treating your future self as a business partner to whom you are strictly accountable. It’s the difference between saying “I hope I do this” and saying “This is a non-negotiable obligation.”

To move from suggestion to contract, you need three things:

1. Clear Terms and Conditions

A suggestion is vague: “I’ll write tomorrow.” An internal contract is specific: “At 10:00 AM, I will open my document, turn off Wi-Fi, and write for 45 minutes.” If the terms are vague, your brain will find a loophole. Define the “what,” the “when,” and the “how.”

2. The Penalty Clause

In a real-world contract, there are consequences for breach. When you break a promise to yourself, the only consequence is a slight dip in self-trust. Over time, that adds up to a total collapse of your personal mission.

Set a “penalty” for breaking the contract. Maybe you lose a privilege (no social media until the writing is done) or you have to do a chore you hate. The point is to make the breach of contract more painful than the work itself.

3. Environmental Backup

You wouldn’t sign a contract and then put it in a box you never open. You’d keep it on your desk.

If you want to write at 10:00 AM, don’t just rely on your willpower. Rearrange your environment the night before. Close every tab on your computer except your writing software. Leave your notebook open on your desk. By preparing your environment, you are essentially “signing” the contract with your physical space, making it harder to ignore when the time comes.

Moving From “I’ll Try” to “I Will”

The next time you set a goal, stop treating it like a New Year’s resolution or a vague hope. Stop “telling” yourself you will do it.

Instead, sit down, look at the task, and recognise that you are making a binding agreement. You are the employer, and you are the employee. If you consistently fail to show up for your own shifts, you won’t keep the job.

Are you just making suggestions to yourself? Or are you ready to sign the contract and actually honour the deal?

The writing (or whatever task you’re avoiding) isn’t waiting for you to “feel like it.” It’s waiting for you to decide that your word is worth something. Sign the contract, and show up.

Day 124 – Setting an internal appointment to start work

…

The Art of the Internal Contract: Why “Just Deciding” Isn’t Enough

We’ve all been there. You close your laptop on a Tuesday night, feeling motivated, and tell yourself, “Tomorrow morning at 10:00 AM, I am going to sit down and write.”

You wake up the next day, grab a coffee, check your email, handle a “quick” task, and suddenly it’s 11:30 AM. The writing didn’t happen. You rationalise it with the classic: “I just wasn’t in the flow,” or “Something came up.”

But let’s be honest: that wasn’t a choice; it was a failed intention.

There is a massive, structural difference between telling yourself you will do something and setting an internal contract to make it happen. Most of us mistake the former for the latter.

The Illusion of “Just Saying So”

When you tell yourself, “I’ll write at 10:00 AM,” you are making a suggestion to your future self.

The problem? Your future self is a different person. When 10:00 AM rolls around, your future self is dealing with new stimuli: a tired brain, an overflowing inbox, a distracting notification, or the seductive pull of “productive procrastination.” If your intention is just a gentle suggestion, your future self will almost always opt for the path of least resistance.

A suggestion is a wish. A contract is a commitment.

What is an Internal Contract?

An internal contract is the psychological act of treating your future self as a business partner to whom you are strictly accountable. It’s the difference between saying “I hope I do this” and saying “This is a non-negotiable obligation.”

To move from suggestion to contract, you need three things:

1. Clear Terms and Conditions

A suggestion is vague: “I’ll write tomorrow.” An internal contract is specific: “At 10:00 AM, I will open my document, turn off Wi-Fi, and write for 45 minutes.” If the terms are vague, your brain will find a loophole. Define the “what,” the “when,” and the “how.”

2. The Penalty Clause

In a real-world contract, there are consequences for breach. When you break a promise to yourself, the only consequence is a slight dip in self-trust. Over time, that adds up to a total collapse of your personal mission.

Set a “penalty” for breaking the contract. Maybe you lose a privilege (no social media until the writing is done) or you have to do a chore you hate. The point is to make the breach of contract more painful than the work itself.

3. Environmental Backup

You wouldn’t sign a contract and then put it in a box you never open. You’d keep it on your desk.

If you want to write at 10:00 AM, don’t just rely on your willpower. Rearrange your environment the night before. Close every tab on your computer except your writing software. Leave your notebook open on your desk. By preparing your environment, you are essentially “signing” the contract with your physical space, making it harder to ignore when the time comes.

Moving From “I’ll Try” to “I Will”

The next time you set a goal, stop treating it like a New Year’s resolution or a vague hope. Stop “telling” yourself you will do it.

Instead, sit down, look at the task, and recognise that you are making a binding agreement. You are the employer, and you are the employee. If you consistently fail to show up for your own shifts, you won’t keep the job.

Are you just making suggestions to yourself? Or are you ready to sign the contract and actually honour the deal?

The writing (or whatever task you’re avoiding) isn’t waiting for you to “feel like it.” It’s waiting for you to decide that your word is worth something. Sign the contract, and show up.