Your Monday mote

Let's get real, the thinking never stops

I lied to you.

When I wrote in my newsletter yesterday about switching off over Christmas, I wasn’t telling the truth.

Last night, as I was attempting unsuccessfully to switch off my brain and go to sleep, I started to mull over what I’d written, and it dawned on me that there’s no ‘switching off’. Not ever.

I’ve learned recently that a lot of people don’t have an inner dialogue. I can barely imagine what ‘tumbleweed of the brain’ must feel like. My mind never stops, so I already know how this festive season is going to play out.

Yes, I’ve promised myself that the precious, lazy days between Christmas and New Year will be a break. The plan is clear: no deadlines, no responsibilities and no demands. Just me, my pj’s, a ridiculous amount of cheese, a cocktail or two and The Gavin & Stacey Finale. Bliss.

Except, I know that isn’t quite how it’ll go because the truth is, when you’re a writer, the idea of truly switching off is a fantasy. A never-ending story, if you will.

Writing isn’t just something you do; it’s a mindset, a way of moving through the world. Even when you’re not physically at the keyboard, you’re still writing—somewhere in your head, in the back rooms of your mind, ideas are forming, characters are talking to each other and plots are twisting into shape.

It starts innocently enough. Yes, I’ll be sprawled on the sofa, surrounded by the remnants of festive indulgence and at least one block of Wensleydale (with cranberries natch). But within arm’s reach, there’ll be a notebook and my trusty fountain pen, just in case an idea sneaks in. And if I’m too prone to write, I’ll open my Otter app and capture my thoughts that way.

Before I know it, I’ll be knee-deep in plotting, the seeds of 2025 already beginning to sprout.

And honestly, I don’t mind because the in-between has a different energy to the rest of the year.

There’s no urgency, and the usual pressures are gone. Instead, it’s just me and my thoughts, unfolding naturally. It’s the kind of work that doesn’t feel like work. A holiday of the mind, even if it involves a bit of scribbling and a lot of muttering to myself about plot holes.

Watching a film? I’m noting how the dialogue snaps, or how the lighting sets the mood.

Reading a book? I’m analysing pacing or learning from the author’s missteps.

Even something as simple as people-watching—on the odd occasion that I venture beyond my Christmas cocoon— can become a treasure trove of quirks, gestures and overheard snippets of conversation.

The emotional processing doesn’t take a break either.

Writing, after all, is not just about telling stories; it’s about understanding the world and your place in it. The holidays, with their heady mix of nostalgia and excess, are ripe for mining those deep, reflective moments that inevitably worm their way into your work.

So, yes, I know exactly what’s going to happen. I’ll be lounging in front of the TV, After Eights to hand, pretending I’ve switched off but the wheels will be turning.

The creative process is a rebellious child—it never stops, even when you tell it to.

And nor should it.

Lisa