What if I didn't write every day?

A lesson in letting go of my own idea of what it means to be creative

For most of my writing life, I’ve believed in the adages about writing every day. I lived and died by a quote attributed to Pablo Picasso: “Inspiration exists, but it has to find you working.”

I’ve felt like a failure every time I’ve missed a day of writing because I’ve had to prioritize something else or because I needed sleep or because I simply didn’t feel like it. I’ve treated writing like it was something I could lose if I didn’t cling to it hard enough in the exactly right way. I’ve gotten up early to yawn before a blank screen, met word counts, and made star charts in order to show proof that I was doing the work. Maybe, if I had ways to show how hard I was working, then that would somehow demonstrate that I deserved to be published.

This past fall, in a fog of grief and stress, I fell off of my daily ritual of writing. I couldn’t string together a consistent series of writing days. I would get up to write and immediately feel compelled to go back to sleep, frequently falling asleep at my desk before crawling back to bed.

I still had work to do. I didn’t take time off from my MFA, so I had new work due every four weeks. Though it’s out of character, I procrastinated until the week or weekend before the work was due to write until I had enough work to submit.

I dreaded getting comments back from my advisor because I thought that surely, no matter what I wrote, it would be garbage. It had to be: I’d written in a compressed period, without a sense of order or routine. It was so different from how I’d written for years, with dutiful faith in my process and a smug sense of superiority over people who didn’t write daily.

The first time I did it, I was frantic and worried that I wouldn’t finish in time, and when I did, I was exhilarated. I felt like I’d gotten away with something and pulled off a magic trick. I awaited the feedback on my work, and when it came, I was stunned.

My advisor said that the work was alive—it felt urgent and emotional, and it made her want to keep reading. When I returned to read it, I was surprised at what had come out. I hadn’t plotted it out beat-by-beat or edited it down to the bone. And yet, it didn’t show signs of two of my most significant flaws as a writer (and human): overwriting and over-intellectualizing.

I assumed it was a fluke—I got lucky when I had little to give and needed to get work done to avoid another source of stress.

What I’ve been surprised to find is that I’ve stuck to a similar pattern in my recent work, and every time, I’m surprised to find that the work isn’t suffering. In fact, it’s getting better.

I don’t mean to make it sound like I’m not working. I don’t completely forget about the work, the plot, or my characters. I probably work just as much; however, it looks different than what I’ve always considered writing. Part of the book I’m working on takes place during the Vietnam War, so I look at photos from protests and read stories of the women who led those efforts. Sometimes, I make a playlist from the era or memory I’m writing from and let myself remember or imagine what those songs would have meant at the time. I daydream about the conversations between characters and leave myself notes with questions or answers or potential plot points. I compile articles or other things I find interesting or that pique my interest, even if I don’t know how they might relate to the work I’m making.

Lately, I’ve found that some of my best work arises while I’m moving my body. I know many writers swear by walking, but I’ve found that something about being in a spin class or a strength class with loud music and someone telling me what to do gives my brain enough space to wander and create new possibilities. When I leave class sweating profusely with endorphins flowing, I am surprised by how possibilities or solutions bubble up.

While I recognize that this sounds like an extraordinary turn of events, it makes me deeply uncomfortable. I feel unmoored and unable to rely on my habits and work ethic. I spent years building up this discipline, and now it’s not serving me. I’ve depended on my dependability instead of trusting what might come up if I strayed from what I’d always done.

I’ve never been a fan of change or risk-taking. I’m a Taurus — I like consistency, routine, and predictability. I prefer to research the “perfect” method or decision and then stick with it, frequently without examining if it’s working for me anymore. I have spent an inordinate amount of time in therapy and in conversations with people close to me about how I can be too attached to black-and-white thinking, even when things are nuanced and deserve further thought.

The past few years, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about self-trust. What would it mean to act without turning things over in my mind a million times or talking to everyone I know to get their opinions on what I should do? I’ve spent most of my life thinking I’m wrong about nearly everything, the by-product of growing up in a religion that told me that I was a sinner, but also because for much of my life, I’ve surrounded myself with people who reinforced ideas about me being “dramatic” or “crazy” or “overly sensitive.” As it turns out, I’m rarely any of those things, and the more I trust that, the easier it is to trust myself.

Lately, following in the footsteps of my writing methods, I’ve decided not just to think about trusting myself but to do it. I'm trying to follow the little nudges and ideas, listen to my body when it suggests I go back to sleep instead of writing, and to spend time following my attention instead of a word count. I’m trying to allow and rather than force. I’m trusting that my opinions, feelings, and ideas are trustworthy.

I also trust that if this method doesn’t work, I know how to be disciplined and create routines to support myself if I need something stricter again. Like most things, I assume that this will ebb and flow — and I hope that I’ll trust myself enough to shift again.

---

Things I’ve Loved Lately:

• Olivia’s post about how the optimized life won’t save you.

• Kim and Chelsea opened The Fountain platform! I’ve been taking classes with them for a few years now and had the privilege of watching their (brilliant, impactful) workshops grow into this platform. I’ve learned so much from these two, and I’m excited to utilize their wisdom in my daily life and creative practice. Check it out.

• I am happy-sad to report that Lake pajamas are even better than I dreamed. During their recent sale, I got a set with a long-sleeved shirt and shorts, a tank-shorts set, and a tank-pants set, and I cannot wait for the next one because I will CLEAR THEM OUT. I’ve got my eye on this set, as well as this set, (currently out of stock but I’m hoping it returns soon) because they both seem so dang summery!

• Longtime internet pal Sarah Von Bargen of Yes and Yes is BACK! And naturally, everything she writes is brilliant and timely and so dang good!

• I’m still straightening my hair, and I think I’m hooked. I could write a whole post about it (if anyone but me finds it interesting!), but for whatever reason, wearing my hair straight instead of curly is oddly easier these days. The products that work best for me are primarily Kérastase because even my hair has a champagne taste on a teacher’s budget! I love this shampoo, this conditioner, this blowdry primer, and this anti-frizz/heat protectant spray. I’m also experimenting with JVN’s Complete Blowout Styling Milk.

• I appreciate Leslie’s tips on low-effort ways to maintain friendships.

• I finally got the Veja Campo Sneakers and they are comfortable and chic!

• I’m currently reading every post I can on Writing In The Dark, and learning so much while feeling so seen.

• My favorite notebooks are made by Appointed, and it’s their anniversary sale this week! Don’t miss out!