But he had a striking New Year's resolution: "not to pay any attention to any physical troubles", he told his friend A. E. Hotchner, "but just follow doctor's orders and try to train good and get my work done". It was funny, he said, to have all these ailments on the outside, "while you are making your main fight inside".

As I wince at the arrival of another year, Hemingway's fight, 60 years ago, interests me. It is a reminder, not simply of time dripping on, but of the intimacy between body and mind. Hemingway's fierce will was not enough to overcome his injuries and illnesses. The "outside" provided much of his "inner" strength, endurance and agility. And the "inside", in turn, was what picked up the boxing gloves or whisky bottle, and augmented or corrupted his flesh. When both failed, Hemingway had little left but grim perseverance.

Many look to the new year to pursue their artistic dreams – or at least to say they will. The writing they have put off for decades, for example, or the painting left unfinished in the garage – these projects goad from the edges of the calendar. Hemingway's new year is a reminder of the precariousness of this exercise: how extraordinarily difficult it is to maintain creative work.

Even mediocre art takes, not only talent, but also constant effort. And not only effort, but also health: at least enough energy to sit for hours, combining exhausting receptive attention with precise expression and an aesthetic sense of the unfolding whole. And not once, but day after day, for years. And perhaps worse still: to have these creations offer an impression of ease –

This is to say nothing of the financial sacrifices, or frayed relationships, as the public "inside" takes precedence over intimate others and their own fraught worlds.

The point is not that writing, and art in general, are vocations for superhuman martyrs or romantic bastards. The point is that Hemingway's New Year's resolution was not spoken lightly: it was a serious and harrying labour, this business of the "inside fight". And it was intimately tied to his "outside" well-being, a relationship that became increasingly more conflicted as the decades took their pounds of flesh.

So as I take that deep breath before claiming 2015, I suggest a little patience: not simply for writers, but for all the aspiring artists struggling with cumbersome reality. You will probably fail. And if you succeed, you will probably be relatively poor for most of your life. (The "relatively" is essential.) And if you grow wealthy from your art, this will probably bring its own complications: like the visitors who threatened to drive middle-aged Hemingway from his home, or the spotlight that had him mugging and swaggering instead of writing well.

And after all this, regardless of how well you sell or are reviewed, your body will give up, and with much it your art – but not your aspirations. Put another way: the more you care, the more humiliating your "inside" striving will be, as you stoop below your own standards.

To be enduringly creative – of all the indulgent New Year's resolutions, this is one of the more ambitious, even for the privileged middle classes. It is, for most, an unwinnable bout.

Yet here I am, having put myself to bed at 11 o'clock, with no grog or late meal, fresh from a morning jog and chin-ups, staring at the page. Happy New Year, everyone.

Damon Young is a Melbourne philosopher. damonyoung.com.au