One of my favourite kinds of YouTube videos is the nighttime routine. There’s something oddly soothing about watching people wash their faces, pack their bags for the next day and do yoga. Those videos always make me want to reassess my own evening routine and make some changes (that no-screens before bed thing is still a work in progress!)

Earlier this year, I did switch things around and, for a month, between May and June, I painted every night before bed. I’m not much of a painter – I’m good at looking at and analyzing them, but I haven’t had much experience of actually putting a brush to paper. I’d just come home from Venice though and, aside from the post-holiday blues making me want to do something different for a while, I couldn’t forget the pinks, powder blues, turquoises, greys and golds of that city; there’s nowhere like Venice for making you want to try painting! So, each evening, I’d climb the stairs to my room with a pot of water in hand and get started. The pictures weren’t anything fancy – just 12 x 12 cm panels splashed out in water colours on the pages of my journal. As the month went on though, I realised I was learning a lot from this accidental project. Here’s what I noticed:

1. It’s satisfying to end the day by finishing something. I’ve spent most of this year working on a novel and, although I love it, when you’re working on something long, it’s easy to feel as though the finish line gets further away the more work you do and the more changes you make. Completing a tiny painting each day gave me a sense of accomplishment; whatever else I’d made or done (or not done….) in the preceding hours, filling in that square with paint made me feel as if the day had been creatively well spent.

2. Painting each night reminded me of where my creative boundaries are. The only times I couldn’t paint in that month were where I’d had a couple of drinks or where it was just too late at night. I write so much, even if it’s just scribbling down notes, and I write a lot when I’m anxious, so I forget that my mood or state affects what I’m doing. Making a small painting each night reminded me of how much energy, equilibrium and kindness to yourself is required for creative work and made me more aware of my mindset when I sat down to write.

3. I realised that I’ve been unconsciously absorbing influences for years without realizing; I started the month trying to paint with the blues and greens and pinks of Venice but quickly noticed that I was actually trying to paint like Mark Rothko or Bridget Riley. Painting each evening allowed me to explore another bit of my mind, to peel back a layer and see what ideas I’d been unconsciously forming of what a painting should be; how colours and shapes and lines should work together. I was able to see where I’d subconsciously pocketed references and images from gallery visits, books, postcards and films. I felt as if I was unpacking a new side of myself which had lain dormant for a long time, which made me wonder what sort of ideas my inner embroiderer or patisserie chef (for example!) might be harbouring.

4. Painting each night kept anxiety at bay; each evening, when I’d finished, I’d be so pleased at having completed something and at having relaxed by splashing about with paint that I’d go to sleep without feeling anxious. In the morning, I woke up excited to see how the painting had dried, which meant I had a focus for my energy first thing, rather than immediately (and habitually!) diverting it into worries. First and last thing are the worst times of day for my anxiety and it made a huge difference having a locus for my thoughts then.

5. Sometimes it’s fun to be a total beginner. It might be a cliché, but I’ve always liked the saying that at every stage of your life, you should be a beginner at something. I love the idea of beginner’s mind; that open and excited outlook where anything is possible and a vast landscape of opportunity lies before you. I’d love to think that I’ll still be diving into different subjects with enthusiasm when I’m old – that I’ll still be open to the unfamiliar. Because even if you’re just making tiny paintings, trying something new knocks you out of your comfort zone and allows you to observe your mind at work. I think the mind is never sharper than when it’s actively engaged in trying out different concepts and solving new problems.

As a beginner, I’ve discovered that I move through several opening stages quite fast; I try a lot of things out, I get to expand a bit, see what makes my heart sing and what doesn’t with no fear of repercussion or regret – no-one has to see what I’m working on and I’m just flirting with this new and shiny thing anyway. With painting, I found that I started seeing the world differently – I started to see shapes, lines and angles in my surroundings. I was more attuned to the visual quality of my everyday life and I had ideas for paintings in the same way that I’d have ideas for stories, details and colours presenting themselves and coalescing in my mind’s eye. This might be an obvious point, but having such a shift in perspective, thinking and imagining is, I think, quite magical.

As for when you stop being a beginner, perhaps that occurs when you start working hard at something? Or when you want to start working hard at something rather than just dabbling? Is it when you slow down a bit and dig in - when things get difficult or when you begin to want to study technique and theory and become proficient rather than just having a go? Another post for another day. For now, my late painting experiment has finished (to be replaced with a yoga before bed experiment…) but I’m determined to find time to fit in painting and to follow this new and exciting thread of creativity and imagination.