Trusting myself and touching the work

I’ve been chasing the “perfect” writing routine for most of my life. Since 2004, I’ve started (and never finished) The Artist’s Way at least once a year, and for much of my life (including over a year straight!), I completed Morning Pages. I’ve taken myself on artist dates and tried to guard time for my creativity.

I have read other inspiring books that all suggest routines for how to maximize your creativity and make sure you’re getting the most out of your writing time: meditating, writing for the same amount of time at the same time every day, engaging in full-body shaking, affirmations, and writing exercises designed to unlock your subconscious.

I own a suspicious number of books that help you write a novel in a specified number of days or drafts and books with beat sheets and formulas to help you dial in plot and character. I’ve made star charts and spreadsheets and tried to refine the “perfect” routine to maximize my abilities.

I don’t want to think about how much money I’ve spent on classes, many of which have been extremely helpful but few of which have provided new information.

With every book and class and routine, I tried to alter my own routine, making sure that other people knew better and that if I could adopt their habits, it would transform my own. Some ideas were helpful; however, few of them felt right. I couldn’t stick to other people’s plans.

This past fall made it extremely challenging to write and laughable to try and maintain a routine. I was back and forth to San Diego to be with Other Amy and her mom. My mental health was Not Good™️ , and I spent an inordinate amount of time self-advocating for proper treatment. I was tending to dogs. I was trying to manage all the dumb little household things independently. I was tired and sad and weary. I canceled so many plans just trying to survive.

I couldn’t write. I would sit down to do morning pages and start crying. I was fumbling for my footing in every creative project I tried to engage in.

I felt desperate.

Because I am in a low-residential MFA program, I submit packets to an advisor once a month, and we correspond about the work. Typically, I work slowly, with a bit of a rush at the end to pull it all together. I managed to complete the first two packets in my usual work style, but the longer my wife has gone and the closer we got to losing her mom, the more overwhelming my grief felt. Working felt impossible.

I wish I could say I surrendered to not working — I felt like I had no choice. I fought it, tooth and nail. I get up early to write, and I would set my alarm for 4:30, get out of bed, and stare at a blank screen (or worse, Instagram). I couldn’t sit down, journal for 20 minutes, and then force myself to crank out thousands of words daily the way I had been able to before.

I love the metaphor (I heard it first from Chelsea Bieker, I think) about “touching the work every day” and “not letting the paint dry.” The idea is that even if you aren’t working explicitly on your project every day, you’re thinking about it, researching it, listening to a playlist your character might listen to, or moving it forward some other way. In this interview, she talks about it a bit, saying, “I really like the idea of touching the project in some way every day. And not being too judgmental about what that looks like.”

One thing about me is that I am a hard worker. A former co-worker once called me “relentlessly productive,” that dogged work ethic is one of my greatest strengths and one of the ways I punish myself the most. If I can’t work or don’t “get it done,” I berate myself.

The lesson I had to learn this fall was the second half of Chelsea’s statement: not being too judgmental about what it looks like. This fall, I had to give myself a break. My “work” often looked like dropping thoughts into my notes app or looking at pictures from the timeframe I was writing about or Googling things that related to the book. It meant going to spin class and moving energy out of my body so I had space for grief and thinking. It meant taking my dogs on walks and letting my mind wander.

I worried that it wasn’t enough and feared that I was letting any hope of becoming a writer slip through my fingers.

A mere six days before one of my packet deadlines this semester, I had yet to write anything substantive. I had loose ideas and a few pages but needed something worthy of submission. Every day, the anxiety mounted; however, my body and brain would not cooperate. Every time I went to write, my body and brain felt like they were saying, “Not yet”

Four days before the packet was due, I went to a coffee shop and wrote nearly the entire packet. Twenty-five pages flew out of my body. Instead of writing what I had on an outline or what logically made sense, I followed the parts of the story that felt most alive and exciting.

It felt fun instead of forced. I used to think that people who said that “stories reveal themselves to them” and “they have to get to know the characters because they surprise them” were bonkers at best and liars at worst. I get it now. I had the magic experience. I’m a believer now.

The lesson I have to keep learning repeatedly is to trust myself. Trust that I’ve done enough work, that the reading and the writing and the thinking are leading somewhere. It made me think of a quote from Cheryl Strayed’s “Dear Sugar” column (and her incredible book, Tiny Beautiful Things): “The useless days will add up to something. The shitty waitressing jobs. The hours writing in your journal. The long meandering walks. The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and dead people’s diaries and wondering about sex and God and whether you should shave under your arms or not. These things are your becoming.”

The wild eyes are from editing my own work, something that will make anyone a little nuts.

This goofy photo is after I submitted 117 pages of work to my advisor — not just any 117 pages, but 117 pages of a project I am proud of and excited about. A project I didn’t think would come together if I didn’t force it.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop reading about writing routines and how other writers approach their practice. I will probably buy a myriad of craft books. But I want to use them as inspiration, not as a command. I don’t want to assume that others know better than I do regarding my creativity. I want to keep trusting those little nudges and believe that the magic will happen when the time is right. I’ll still get up early to work, but I’ll worry less about word counts and beat sheets. Instead, I’ll be trying to listen and waiting for the goodness to kick in.