I’m writing today, December 12th 2025, about the usual habits of writers and some artists, as I myself am trying to find my own habits, rituals, and consistency.

Lately, the yearning need to improve my lack of discipline led me on a trip to Japan. There, I observed habits, manners, posture, politeness, rigidity, shyness, and discretion. I observed all of this, and none of it reminded me of my own behavior.

I was the complete opposite: too extravagant, too alive, too loud, too clumsy, too excited, restless, spontaneous, almost not careful enough. I faced my constant need to escape, my instinctive refusal to be restrained. While everything seemed to measure, regulate, and polish existence, I found myself instead nothing but a living disorder. This rejection was not only directed at what I did, but also at what I was, deeply: a raw, undisciplined energy that I did not know how to calm or direct. All of this revealed itself with cruel clarity, as if this country had acted as a mirror too precise, too honest, one from which I could no longer turn away. And underlined a part of me that I felt compelled to improve, to control, to tame.

In my relentless pursuit of freedom, I found myself in a state of intense discomfort, oppressed by the rules, the prohibitions, the customs, the looks, and refusals embedded in Japanese society. Once I returned, I was able to put all these thoughts and emotions back into place, to mend the untamed part of myself, while gradually trying to unfold and understand this state of discomfort.

A few days later, I came across an article outlining some of the writing routines of certain authors. I remember having hated the word “methodology” at university, probably out of ignorance of its power and true meaning. Through their practices, I hope to shape a methodology of my own… and this, would be the last wish I have to end the year properly.

I always find myself wishing impossible things, and yet this time, I instinctively wrote: I wish possible things.

Virginia Woolf

Breakfast with her husband and a bath. Write from 9:30 a.m. to 12 p.m. every day. It was reported that for thirty years Woolf received a book every Friday, finished it by Sunday, wrote 1500 of her own words by Wednesday, edited it by Friday.

Haruki Murakami

Wakes up at 4 a.m., works for five to six hours. Goes on a 10 kilometer run or 1500 meter swim or both. Reads, listens to music. In bed by 9 p.m. He calls this routine "a form of mesmerism"; the repetition "mesmerizes" him into a deeper state where he can write the novel.

Patti Smith

Wakes up, does some exercises to get her head clear. Feeds cat, gets notebook, goes out to get coffee. Writes in the cafe or on a bench somewhere. Roams around, killing time until "something good is on TV." At home, she prefers to write in bed.

And last but not least,

Andy Warhol

He ate exactly the same thing every day, because it saved him the time he would otherwise waste deciding what to prepare. He notably said that he had eaten Campbell’s soup every day for years, which echoes his famous series of artworks depicting soup cans. He also reportedly said, “I have the same lunch every day.” The idea behind this habit was to minimize daily decisions so he could devote all his energy to art. Similarly, David Lynch once said :"I like to have the same thing every day. If you think too much about food, you lose ideas."