As you read, do you scribble around the edges? Over the years, writers have sworn by the practice. Edgar Allan Poe once wrote: ‘In getting my books, I have been always solicitous of an ample margin … for the facility it affords me of pencilling suggested thoughts, agreements and differences of opinion …’

I tend to make notes digitally nowadays. And if I include magazines and newspapers, most of my reading is online, where I probably could annotate with the right software, but can hardly doodle. That’s a shame. Apart from the fact that annotating boosts recall, we’d lose something if freeform margin-writing faded away. One of the meanings of ‘marginalia’ is ‘non-essential’, yet it’s anything but.

For one thing, scribbled-upon books have helped reveal the web of influences between writers and thinkers. Herman Melville’s annotated copy of John Milton’s Paradise Lost shows how it fed into Moby-Dick. And Charles Darwin’s comments in his books – from Charles Lyell’s Principles of Geology to his grandfather Erasmus Darwin’s The Temple of Nature – inform how they shaped his theory.

Marginalia can reveal everyday insights too. Historians occasionally find scrawls in manuscripts that speak of long-dead readers’ lives. A recent exhibition in Dublin features scriptures doodled on by medieval Irish monks. One described feeling ‘ale-killed’ (hungover); another complained about his materials (‘New parchment, bad ink. O I say nothing more’). Turns out nuns did similar. In 2022, researchers found surprisingly modern cartoons of people around the edges of an 8th-century Act of Apostles. A nun etched them, perhaps mischievously.

Reading about these examples made me think I should annotate more – not everything, but the writing I care about. Or perhaps I’ll take a leaf from a wholesome TikTok trend I discovered while writing this: gifting an annotated book. This 21st-century practice suggests digitalisation may not be annotation’s death knell after all. Poe might have approved.

Just breathe! When you’re gripped by anxiety, hearing this well-intentioned advice can be infuriating. Compared with the power of my body’s fight-or-flight response, the notion that I can find calm by tuning into my breath feels almost fanciful.

But recently I came across a study in Scientific Reports that caught my eye because it showed that slow breathing makes a difference not just to how people feel, but to their brain activity. The results have increased my confidence that breathing can make a meaningful difference.

The researchers set things up so their participants either knew they’d be exposed to horrible images (such as pictures of injuries and scary animals) or they thought there’d be a chance they might be – this latter condition acted as a simulation of ‘anticipatory anxiety’, like when you have a dentist appointment and you’re not sure if you might need a horrible procedure.

Anticipatory anxiety increased the aversive impact of the images – both in terms of how bad the participants felt after looking at them, and in terms of the electrical activity in their brains, specifically in the beta-frequency range that’s known to be amplified when we’re stressed or worried.

Crucially, however, the effects of anticipatory anxiety on subjective feelings and brain activity were dulled if the participants engaged in 30 seconds of slow breathing (six seconds in, six seconds out) before the task. In fact, after slow breathing, the participants had lower beta brain activity in the anxiety condition than they had in the non-anxiety condition after normal breathing (two seconds in, two seconds out).

It’s a small study and it’s long established that neuroscience findings can be seductive, so I’m wary of being overly gullible. But I thought the design was clever. It showed that, while anxiety can intensify our difficult experiences, a simple, slow-breathing technique can mitigate these effects.

I usually start the year with the goal of reading more books. But, this year, my goal is to read just one: War and Peace (1869).

Leo Tolstoy’s novel has been on my shelf for years, but lighter and shorter fare has always come between us. ‘I’ll read this one quick, easy novel,’ I think, ‘then I’ll give Tolstoy my full attention.’ Years passed. Until I encountered the idea of the ‘slow read’, via Simon Haisell’s newsletter Footnotes and Tangents. It’s Haisell’s third and final year running an online club for this particular novel, producing podcasts to accompany each week’s reading, and in 2025 his subscriber list has swelled like the ranks of the Napoleonic and Russian armies advancing towards each other, with me among their number.

War and Peace has 361 chapters, most shorter than 10 pages. Having started on 1 January and reading a chapter a day, I can expect to reach the epilogue not long after Christmas. This makes my experience similar to how the earliest version of the story, published in weekly newspaper instalments, was read. Now more than halfway through the year, my sense of time has shifted in response to this routine. The book as an object has become a talisman, a tangible manifestation of how a daily habit can build into a much bigger accomplishment: the growing section of pages in my left hand marking out the year so far; the dwindling section in my right hand showing the year yet to unfold. On the left is what is done and cannot be changed; on the right are possibilities still open, choices yet to be made, days to be filled with activities of my choosing. If this is what I can achieve through an extra 15 minutes of reading a day, what else could I add to my life in a similarly manageable, daily microdose? My guitar calls to me from across the room, and the Duolingo owl hoots softly, menacingly, from my phone.