1. On Writing Habits

ON WRITING HABITS

When I say that attention is a form of love, I’m also saying that attention is about devotion and commitment. “Paying attention” is a metaphor in itself: attention a form of currency we pay to things we value. We pay with our time, our energy, our selves. Any artistic practice requires this kind of investment.

Let me say it up front: I’m always writing, but I do not sit down to write every day.

Let me also admit: When I hear or read another writer advise a writing schedule, I roll my eyes. Sometimes, in the interest of playing well with others, I have to roll them in my mind only.

It strikes me as a privileged suggestion—and, yes, one that ignores women’s realities in particular—to assume that one has the time, space, and multiple supports available to make a daily writing practice realistic. When my children were very young, I was rarely left alone long enough to wash my hair without a small human talking to me on the other side of the shower curtain—“Mom, think up an animal and I’ll try to guess what it is!”—so the idea of carving out enough time for sustained thought was, well, you get the picture.

But I have never been a daily writer, not even before children and the demands of adulthood. Even when I had the time and space to write every day, I did not. Yes, there are some exceptions—working on a specific project with a deadline, working on a commissioned piece—but one of the most liberating aspects of writing poems is also one of the saddest aspects of writing poems: one cannot make a living at writing poems. This is true for most people writing in any genre, really. One might make a living by teaching writing, speaking about writing, and editing other people’s work, but most writers don’t support themselves with writing alone. And if one cannot make a living at writing, then writing is freed from the responsibility of supporting us. We choose to do it anyway.

Maybe you don’t write every day either, and you feel a little bad about that. Maybe you’ve heard or read that “real writers” sit down at the same time every day and write for a specific amount of time, or write a specific number of words, before they stop. Don’t get me wrong, I love the idea of writing every day—whether it’s morning pages, or journaling, or just getting a messy draft done. I love the idea, but I don’t do it myself, and I try not to feel guilty about that. What if you’re working multiple jobs, caregiving for children or aging parents, or commuting long distances for work or school?

When I do write, I’m not picky about where or when. I tend to think best in the morning and late at night, but if mid-afternoon is the only open time that day, I can work with that. I usually write longhand first, in a notebook (blank, dotted, lined) or on a legal pad. If I don’t have paper handy, I might type notes into my phone or record myself talking so that I don’t lose the language or the idea.

These days I try to write when my children are at school, and I’ve found it’s best not to be too finicky about the conditions. I like to listen to music when I write, but I don’t have to. I like to work outside in the fresh air, but I don’t have to. I like to work in public—at a coffee shop, ideally—but I don’t have to. I write when I can, as I can, and when it doesn’t feel right to me, I find something else to do in service of my writing every day. That might mean revising an existing piece, or submitting work to a journal, or chipping away at a book proposal, or doing research. Thinking is part of the writing process. Yes, thinking counts.

Real talk: Sometimes we’re writing on deadline. Sometimes we have to write today, or tomorrow, or the next day because we have an essay or a story due. Sometimes we have to write despite competing demands because writing helps pay our mortgage, our rent, our health insurance, our kids’ tuition. The page awaits. I think of it like cooking: I’d prefer to menu plan and take my time to prepare a multicourse meal on my own timeline, but if pressed, I can get a meal on the table pretty quickly. It’ll taste good, too. When you have the tools, you’re able to work quickly and make magic happen in the time you have.

If I don’t have a deadline looming or a specific project I’m immersed in, I make it my business to give myself space. Openness. As in: a couple of hours where I don’t answer emails or run errands. Maybe during that time I read a little bit of a book, which always tends to spur an idea. Or I take a long walk and just try to notice as much as possible about that sensory experience: the light, the air, the sounds. Some of my best ideas are born when I’m moving—walking or driving—so I try to be prepared. I’ll take some quick notes on my phone or jot them down on paper if I’m carrying a little notebook with me. When a metaphor, phrase, or idea comes to me, I don’t know if it’s going to make its way into a poem or an essay, for example. I don’t find that tapping into inspiration is genre-specific. That glimmering idea just wants to become something; I don’t think it cares what.

As I jot down ideas, not knowing what I might do with them later, I think of it as present me doing future me a solid. But sometimes present me needs to do present me a different kind of solid. I might take care of myself in ways seemingly unrelated to my creative work—by spending time with friends, or getting exercise, or watching a film I’ve been wanting to see. No matter what I’m doing, I’m thinking and experiencing. I’m making connections. Inspiration can strike at the unlikeliest of times.

Taking care of yourself is taking care of your creativity. Taking care of yourself as a whole human being is taking care of the writer in you.

But if you still have that “you should be writing every day” voice in your ear, do it! Write every day if you can. If you’re someone who benefits from ritual—same time, same place, same beverage, same music—then lean into that! But if you can’t work in such a regular way, for whatever reason—whether you’re feeling depleted or uninspired, or life’s rhythms and demands aren’t conducive to it right now—I’m inviting you to try this instead: Commit to doing at least one thing in service of your writing every day.

This one thing can be a small thing. You might scrawl some notes in a notebook or revise an existing piece. You might chip away at a book proposal. You might research journals or presses, query an agent, or submit work. You might request books at your local library for a project or do some background reading. Yes, reading counts. Thinking counts. And since I find that I do some of my best thinking in the shower, yes, showering counts, too.

Or you might give yourself space—to think, to dream, to take a long noticing walk, to make connections, to pay attention.