Why oh why does it take so long?
Colourful paper tags nestled in a bunch of books.
Hello You.
Here’s one thing I know but constantly forget about writing — it takes a lot more time than I think.
Not only time but patience.
Not only patience but surrender.
Not only surrender but generosity.
Generosity with ourselves. Generosity with the process.
It doesn’t matter how much I try to soften into this truth, it still bugs the crap out of me.
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Here’s where I think it gets confusing. When I’m thinking about writing, I’m usually in a mindset of productivity. I think I can do writing, the way I do the dishes or do the crossword puzzle. “I’ve got half an hour, I’ll nip in and finish that newsletter.” And then 90 minutes later, all the paragraphs have come apart at the edges and I don’t know what truth even is.
It’s easy then to blame myself or think I’ve gone astray. Sometimes I do need to step back. But more likely I’ve let myself open into something more real and beautiful and complicated than I could have conceptualized before I was in it, and I can’t fit all that nuance in the little parcel of time I’ve allowed myself.
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Two things are true here. We need to live. Most of us don’t have endless space to create in. We are fitting it in between meetings, meals, myriads of commitments.
But also, when we try to tame the wildness, we lose the wild core of the creative process. When we’re rushed, we aren’t receiving the gifts of transformation that writing can offer.
And transformation is the whole point, isn’t it?
I like to produce, but I write to change, to become more myself, to contribute, to understand my place in this confounding world. That doesn’t always fit into the little spaces I offer it. Sometimes my work is just to find more time to open.
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This is one of the many tensions we need to ease into as writers — patience and productivity.
I believe that in this time, 2021, we’re succumbing to an inflated reverence for getting things done. I suspect it has to do with the speed of the Internet, the way social media trains us toward an audience, and the heady brand of capitalism that has us ensnared. We want to feel safe. We want to keep up. We want to achieve. These things all appear to be linked.
But we also want what we make to matter, and we can’t do that without big doses of courage, tenderness and surrender. And there’s none of that without patience.
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If you’re frustrated right now that you aren’t finished that memoir or novel or blog post, let it be known — you are not alone in this.
I work with writers every day, and I never meet one who is satisfied by the pace of their writing. Everyone is amazed how slow it is. Everyone is staving off self-blame for their natural pace. We gaze at the finished books on our shelves with no thought as to all the valleys of doubt and dread and time those writers traveled through before their books were finished, published, and here in our worlds.
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When we give our writing time, it’s an act of generosity not just for our writing, but for ourselves.
Specifically, for all the parts of us that long for something slower and more mysterious than groceries and dishes.
This is going to take time.
That’s okay. It’s beautiful.
Pack snacks and rest stops and lots of comfort.
You’ve got this.
Nelson Mandela is often quoted as saying, “It always seems impossible until it’s done.”
Here’s to your very own “done” and the long, winding road to get there.
In it with you,
