Gurnaik Johal: ‘I’m addicted to chess, but it’s making me dumber’

Bottling it up: 70%

I’m prone to déjà vu and nostalgia, so when I was sorting through my parents’ garage last year and found my 05/06 Arsenal shirt I had a proper madeleine moment. I couldn’t imagine being small enough to fit into it, but could easily remember slipping it into my schoolbag the Monday morning after a win, like some good luck charm. And I could remember wearing it to lunch at my grandparents’ house, where I’d bring up BBC football on Ceefax during ad breaks so that my baba ji could check the United score. I was five when Arsenal last won the league, and it’s with the emotional maturity of a young child that I’ve experienced the 25/26 season. If I was really being honest about what’s on my mind, most of this piece would be about Arsenal winning the league. But writing about joy is difficult, and reading about it is tedious. So I’ll leave it to the Arsenal fan in your life to be smug and insufferable on my behalf.

Engaging my core: 5%

At dinner on the first day of Chinese New Year, my fortune cookie read: “Your mind is in a restless state.” I’ve never been one for mindfulness – I watch my YouTube yoga tutorials on 1.5 speed – but I’ve happened upon a moment of mental calm for a few minutes each day by trying to hold a plank. At first I could barely get through 30 seconds; now I can do over five minutes. A good novelist has a high tolerance for repetition, boredom and pain, and these skills all come into play when planking – just as, when writing gets tough, the key is simply to keep on going. One more sentence. Ten more seconds. If you want to feel grateful for the amount of time we’re given on this earth, do a plank. It’s taught me the value of a minute.

Tasting notes: 5%

I recently started working at a wine shop. It’s made it clear that my senses of smell and taste are about as strong as my sense of sight (I’ve worn glasses since primary school). I’ve never felt jealous of people who can see further than I can, but the idea that people are smelling and tasting more when we pay the same for a meal feels unfair. Supertasters can make out notes of dried apple peel, fresh brioche and forest floor while I can barely smell if my toast is burning. Like a toddler who learns by putting everything in their mouth, I’ve been training my nose by sniffing as many things as I can. It’s fun to rewire my brain like this, even if it does mean getting some odd looks in the Lidl fruit and vegetable aisle.

Opening gambits, bad habits: 5%

In my efforts to reduce my time on social media, I’ve found myself getting addicted to Chess.com. I play three-minute games against people all around the world: waiting for the kettle to boil, standing in a packed tube carriage, pretending to work. Whenever I find myself at a loss while writing my next book, I pull out my phone and make the same opening move. I feel like an exception to the rule: chess is making me dumber, not smarter. My win percentage hasn’t risen but my screen time has.

Marginal gains: 3%

If you want to write fiction, spend time people-watching. There’s no better place for this than your local PureGym, where the whole spectrum of human behaviour is on display. I started exercising with the outlook of a participant-observer anthropologist: I was both within and without, partaking in the complex kinship systems of the free-weights room but aware that I could leave. But the other day, climbing an imaginary staircase on the step machine, I experienced a rare moment of self-reflection: I’d gone native. Somehow, I’d become the kind of person who brags about being able to do a five-minute plank – did I mention that already? A mental transformation had come about faster than any physical one. What next, I thought: Strava? Padel? Vanilla-flavoured Huel? All gains involve some loss. I need to get out more.

Day zero: 10%

I come from a long line of bald men. Recently I’ve been getting targeted ads for hair-growth supplements. If the algorithm is indeed a soothsayer, I may soon need some soothing. After denial comes acceptance.

My next book: 2%

Occasionally, in moments when I’m not thinking about all of the above, I might find myself thinking about my next novel. Doing it all again feels like an attention-seeking cry for help – like I’m that guy at work who signs up for his next marathon right after finishing his last one. But then I start typing and still find it so fun. That I can imagine things happening to made-up people, and that those things might make a stranger in a different time and place feel something – it doesn’t lose its magic. Often, writing feels like taking a lazy dog for a walk, but there are still moments when the lead goes suddenly taut and it’s the dog that’s pulling you along. And then I get stuck again. And, restless, I pull out my phone and move my pawn to E4.