Sitting cross-legged on the deck of the boat, the Viking writes in a notebook with a fountain pen, a compass, a coffee and nautical charts around him — The Hammock and the Hummingbirds, practical guide to writing
Hummingbird, the icon of the practical guides of The Hammock and the Hummingbirds

How do I work on the days I just can’t?

You don’t argue with the sky

You dress for it.

The keyDon’t try to change your state. Choose the work that suits it.

“There’s always something to say from wherever you are.”

Not from a chapter — based on an interview with Jacob Collier, British musician and arranger.

When it happens to you

You sit down to work and you’re cross with yourself: yesterday it flowed, today nothing. So you force yourself, you spend three hours wrestling with the same sentence, and the day’s lost anyway.

Why forcing yourself never works

You’re trying to create against your state instead of with it. But your state isn’t a lack of willpower to be fixed, it’s a fact of the day, just like rain. You don’t argue with the rain, you change your shoes.

Rule

Where do I find myself today, without trying to change myself?

How to work with the weather, in 4 steps

  1. Before you start, look at your inner sky the way you look out of the window. Gale-force winds? Fog? Dead calm?
  2. Choose the work that suits it. Sluggish day: tidy, rename, reread. Electric day: write the scene that scares you. Fragile day: the letter, the diary.
  3. Change instrument, not goal. If the page won’t take, switch to images, to voice, to a list. The project still moves forward.
  4. And then there are the off days. On those, you don’t work, and it isn’t failure — it’s moderation.

⚠ The weather isn’t a permanent excuse

If every day has been an off day for weeks, it’s no longer the weather: it’s the climate, and this guide won’t fix that. Have a look at guide 25 instead — your body may already have answered for you.

What it changes for you

You stop losing days fighting yourself, and you win back the ones you thought were wasted. A lot of useful work gets done on sluggish days: that’s when you tidy, reread and see what you’d stopped seeing.

How to practise

One line in the morning, before you open anything: the weather, and the task that goes with it. One week is enough to learn your climates.

Remember

You don’t argue with the sky. You dress for it.

You may be wondering

How do I know what the weather’s like?

3 questions are enough: do I have momentum, patience, or neither? Each one opens up a different kind of task.

And what if I have no choice, if there’s a deadline?

Then you change instrument, not goal: you dictate instead of writing, you make an outline instead of a text. It’s quicker than forcing it.

Isn’t this just a way of making excuses?

The difference fits in one line: an excuse avoids the work, the weather chooses which work. If you end the day having done nothing at all, it wasn’t the weather.

Watch the hummingbirds

Watching the hummingbirds means changing your point of view.
Seeing things from every angle.
Accepting every part of ourselves. And of other people.
And laughing about it.

A hummingbird has every colour. So do we. Our shadows and our light.
You take one step to the side: green turns pink. Then gold.
Nothing has moved, except you.

What a practical guide is for

Trying out a tool.
Changing your point of view.
Laughing at something that weighed on you this morning.

What it isn’t

It isn’t therapy.
It isn’t a diagnosis.
It isn’t a courtroom: nobody’s looking for a culprit.
It isn’t a rulebook for good behaviour. You do what you like.

What it’s for

Accepting that we’re human. And fallible.
Our shadows. Our light.
Taking the drama out, to melt the resistance.
Not judging ourselves. Not judging others.
Laughing about it. It works better, and it’s more fun.

Nobody gets judged here. Least of all you.
We don’t know anything you don’t. We just wrote some tools.

Where these guides come from

Nobody made them up. They came out of a novel, chapter by chapter — in the order I learnt them. Not in logical order: in the order life threw them at me.

What you get, end to end:
Not getting stuck in the middle.
Not having to prove your worth.
Understanding the other person without carrying what’s theirs.
Spotting what keeps repeating.
Setting the limit, and holding it.
Naming the manoeuvre, which is enough to defuse it.
Getting out when the judges are also the accusers.
Listening to the body, which answers before we do.
Sorting out what we keep.
And finally: choosing where we’re heading.

I only saw the logic afterwards, reading it back. That’s why it holds: nobody drew it up in advance.

If something feels too big for you, see a professional. A guide is a tool, not a doctor.