I have a big birthday coming up soon—you know, one of those birthdays that ends with a 0 and makes you reassess your entire life.

Recently, I drew up a list of things I'd like to do before the birthday in question. Some items on the list are serious (for example, sending letters of atonement to people I've hurt), and others are downright silly. So if you see me picking apples or riding a bicycle with a basket in the next few months, you'll know why.  

I've taped a copy of the list to my kitchen cupboard—yes, the joys of living alone—so it's hardly top secret. One item in particular seems to surprise friends and family members who visit.

Do a month-long shopping ban...

I have a theory. Writing, as you’ve probably noticed, entails feeling. And when we avoid writing, when we procrastinate by reorganizing the fridge or (more likely) scrolling through Facebook, it’s because we’re afraid to feel. We’re afraid because we worry that accessing our emotions will make us lose control, will loosen our grip on all of the things we’re barely managing as it is: our careers, our relationships, perhaps even our diets or our substance use or our sanity.

Fun fact: only 8% of people stick to their new year’s resolutions.

I suppose these are also the people who clear their email inboxes every day, load dirty dishes directly into the dishwasher, and walk past bowls of peanut M&Ms with nary a second glance.

Meanwhile, the rest of us let unfinished business and milk-spotted cereal bowls pile up. We hate the M&Ms for existing, for tempting us with their bright colors and empty calories. And if we succumb, we hardly taste the candy over the self-recrimination in our heads.

All of this would be fine, if only we didn’t judge ourselves so harshly for it.

If you’re reading this, perhaps one of your new year’s resolutions is to write. Or perhaps you want to write so badly that you’re afraid to turn it into a resolution, because God knows you’ve been burned before.