Today’s trivia: went to the mall to drop off my husband, who supposedly had a Cursor meetup. Spoiler alert: the event was postponed to next month and he didn’t read the email. Lol. So instead, we had sushi for lunch at Sushi Wa, grabbed Kopi Kenangan, and stocked up on fruits at the farmers market. Not a bad trade-off.
But the real highlight of my day was something else: writing.
It’s funny how this habit has become like a quiet drumbeat in my life since July 20, 2025, when I committed to writing at least 1000 words a day on this blog. What started as “let’s see if I can actually do this” has turned into a ritual so familiar, I almost treat it like brushing my teeth. Or, if I’m honest, like going to the toilet. (More on that later. Sorry in advance.)
The spark today came from our BNN Ultimate group. Okki Sutanto wrote this cheerful post inviting everyone to join a #30DaysChallenge of daily writing. He even promised a book for those who finished. Andina replied, saying she was inspired by me and wanted to start, too. Then Adisti asked why I target myself to write so much (minimum 1000 words). My answer? “So I won’t snack only. I want a full meal.”
And yes, I actually said that.
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| Writing in Stanford University during Global Entrepreneurship Summit 2016 |
Writing like eating
That’s what writing feels like for me now: a meal. Not a snack, not a random grab of chips at midnight, but a proper plate of food. Something nourishing.
When I don’t write, it’s like skipping lunch. I feel hungry, restless, and oddly incomplete. And if I let that hunger stretch, it’s not just physical; it feels like my soul gets fidgety. INFJ brain alert: I can’t leave thoughts floating in the ether for too long. They need a home, a container, a page. Otherwise, they gnaw at me like unchewed peanuts stuck between my teeth.
This is why I don’t really care how many people read my blog. Viral posts on social media are like instant ramen: quick, salty, satisfying in the moment, but they leave you bloated and thirsty later. What I want is more like a slow-cooked stew. The kind of words that last, that my grandchildren (or maybe some random kid in 2125) might stumble upon and find useful.
Habits that stick
So how do I keep this daily discipline? Enter James Clear’s Atomic Habits. The idea of habit stacking has been a game-changer for me: attach a new habit to an old one.
In my case:
Old habit: 💩
New habit: 👩💻
Result: 💩 + 👩💻 = 🚽💻
Yes, there's a moving desk and laptop in my toilet. I do write during a nature's call. Too much information? Maybe. Too practical to deny? Definitely.
But here’s the deeper truth: I don’t think about writing as “something extra I should squeeze into my day.” I’ve wired it into my routine so it feels non-negotiable, like drinking water. This reframing, seeing writing not as optional but as necessary, makes all the difference.
The long view
Sometimes, when I wonder whether my daily scribbles even matter, I think about Marcus Aurelius. The Roman emperor didn’t write Meditations to impress anyone; he was journaling to himself, probably never imagining his private notes would survive for millennia. Or Fernando Pessoa, who left behind thousands of unpublished drafts that only became The Book of Disquiet decades after his death.
Both remind me that legacy is unpredictable. You can’t control who reads your work, when, or why. But you can control showing up. You can control putting words on the page today. And in the long run, that’s what builds something enduring.
The psychology of consistency
There’s also research behind this. Studies in psychology show that habits tied to identity are the ones that last longest. If you see yourself as “someone who writes,” you’ll write. Not because someone gives you a gold star, but because it feels wrong not to. It’s like brushing your teeth: once it becomes part of your identity as “a person who takes care of their teeth,” you feel gross if you skip it.
For me, writing is now part of being myself. Without it, I’d feel like I left the house without pants. Sure, technically I could get through the day, but something’s off.
And since we INFJs are wired for meaning-making, writing isn’t just an activity. It’s therapy, reflection, prayer, and rebellion rolled into one.
The funny side
Of course, not every session feels profound. Some days it’s just me typing nonsense while sipping rooibos tea. Some days I’d rather binge-watch Netflix or reorganize my rack. But here’s where the discipline kicks in: I write anyway.
Because here’s the joke: waiting for inspiration is like waiting for a Grab driver who never accepts your booking. You can stare at the screen forever, but unless you actually move your fingers, nothing will show up.
And when the words finally land? It’s like sushi after a long mall trip: unexpectedly satisfying, even if you didn’t plan it.
So what’s the point
Why am I telling you this? Because if you’ve been toying with the idea of writing, but keep postponing it (“when I’m less busy,” “when I feel ready,” “when I have the perfect notebook”), let me be your annoying-but-loving INFJ friend: just start.
Don’t aim for 1000 words right away. Heck, start with 200 like Andina. Or even 50. The key is to turn it into a meal, not a snack. Something you sit down for, something you expect of yourself daily, something you miss when it’s gone.
Like Marcus Aurelius, you might never know how far your words will travel. But they’ll feed you first. And that’s already enough.
To wrap it up
There’s a line in Annie Dillard’s The Writing Life that I keep returning to: “How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.”
If I spend my days writing, even imperfectly, then I know my life is aligned with what matters to me. That’s my legacy, no matter who reads it.
So here’s my challenge: feed yourself with words. Write today, write tomorrow, write like it’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Don’t wait for the perfect moment. Just sit down, type, scribble, scratch.
Because writing isn’t about going viral. It’s about going vital.
Keep on writing,
Nuniek Tirta Sari