Questions to Ask Yourself for a Sustainable Writing Practice
A sustainable writing practice (and I love that it’s called a practice because practice implies experimentation and imperfection) is essentially working toward a lifestyle that allows you to be creative and to keep writing over a long period of time. Cultivating a sustainable writing practice is about cultivating conditions that not only steer you away from burnout but also steer you toward a higher quality of life. This means developing a mindset toward your writing practice that is realistic, motivating, and (self-)compassionate.
What is self-compassion? In this article, Positive Psychology researcher Elaine Houston writes, “The most commonly adopted definition of self-compassion is that of [Dr. Kristin] Neff (2003a) who conceptualizes self-compassion from a Buddhist perspective as having three main components: kindness, common humanity, and mindfulness.” Dr. Kristin Neff, co-founder of the Center for Mindful Self-Compassion and author of Self-Compassion: The Proven Power of Being Kind to Yourself and its accompanying workbook), names and measures three components of self-compassion in the scale: self-kindness versus self judgment, common humanity versus isolation, and mindfulness versus over-identification.
Self-compassion is integral to maintaining sustainable writing practices—and a skill that at least pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps American culture does not teach us. Americans love to commiserate about “pushing through” (Read here about why S.U.C.C.E.S.S. goals are a more holistic alternative to the S.M.A.R.T. goals everyone from your boss to the last self-help book you read seems to endorse as a cure-all to “laziness.”), but self-compassion? Not so much.
So where do we start? When many writers think about their writing practices, they fixate on a narrow idea of what “counts” as a successful writing session—typically, hitting a word count. If we prioritize a more holistic vantage, though, we might see a wider range of actions that can support our writing in both the short- and long-term. On a large scale, a sustainable writing practice includes building community, learning business know-how, gaining financial health, and focusing on physical and mental health as well….but, even on a small scale, a writing practice goes beyond the mechanics of writing itself: it includes collecting ideas, drafting, revising, editing, reading, craft education, and developing self-compassionate routines.
Perhaps the most profound step you can take toward cultivating a sustainable writing practice is pausing to observe your basic needs for getting pen to paper (or finger to keyboard). Here are some questions to ask yourself as you are reflecting on how to start—or revise—your writing practice.
What is the most productive time(s) for you to write?
For example, in the summer, I feel most creative in the morning right when I wake up, so I make a point to jot down snippets before breakfast and before I get bogged down by the day’s chores.
In the winter, though? I find it harder to write daily in the colder months—-partly because that’s when work seems to pick up for me as a writing coach and partly because that’s when my depression hits me with its worst fatigue. After a lifetime of ignoring my body’s rhythms, I am learning to listen. In the winter months, I both seek out more co-writing opportunities to help me focus, and I practice trusting in myself: just because I don’t feel creative on a particular day (or week or month) does not mean that I will never feel creative again. It’s ok if winter is about taking things slow.
Where are you most able to concentrate and allow yourself to be creative & vulnerable?
When I’m writing prose (especially fiction), I find it helpful to write in libraries or cafes. When I’m writing poetry, though, I write best in bed! I need privacy and silence so that I can read (often very personal) lines aloud and hear the music.
And, as long as there is no pressure to share our work, I also love creating alongside other writers in low-stakes workshop settings.
Computer, tablet, or notebook? Pen or pencil? Colored pencils? A printer? What materials do you personally need to ensure that you get writing?
I like to cut stuff up and put them on walls to help me structure my work. Paper, scissors, tape, highlighters, and wall space? YES, PLEASE.
Ideally, how long do you write in one sitting? (Or do you walk around?) How long is too short? How long is too long?
If I’m writing prose, a 2 hour stretch feels luxurious. If I’m writing poetry, I cannot sit down for more than 1 hour at a time; 20-30 minutes feels more like a sweet spot!
Recently I “wrote” a draft by speaking into my memo app on my phone while I was driving—because good ideas always come to me when I’m driving.
When were you last in flow? How do you know you were in it? Have you had a flow experience as a writer? In any other parts of your life?
Learn more about flow here.
What other activities do you need to do in order to feel ready to write?
In a Tweet, the poet Mag Gabbert wrote, “It’s not just about having enough time to write…. It’s about having enough time to quiet your mind first. That part is the hardest.”
In response, the writer Rowena Murillo wrote, “Like today. If I want to start writing at 2 then I need to start at 1. By start I mean get something to drink. Finish the chapter I’m reading. Rearrange my desk. Scroll Pinterest. Reread the last pages I wrote. Etc.”
For me it’s baths. Or driving. Or walking. Or reading.
7. What conditions do you need in place in order to feel ready to write?
Do you need to make a writing date with yourself at the library while your kids are at soccer practice so that they are not interrupting your thought process? Do you need to make sure you eat a meal first so that you’re not hangry?
I find that I need to prioritize mindfulness immediately before I write so that I’m not spending the time worrying over my to-do list instead. (This is partly why writing in the morning works best for me and why I tend to prepare for my writing sessions by engaging in an activity that calms me.)
I ask these questions of my students—and of myself—in most multi-week classes I teach. My answers fluctuate. What I need in the winter differs from what I need in spring. What I need right before my period also differs from what I need during my period or immediately after. And what I need while I’m traveling or caretaking or mourning or in a major transition differs too. Our bodies are not machines. As Joy Marie Clarkson suggests, I give into my garden.
If you found that you didn’t know the answer to these questions, that’s ok—sometimes I don’t know what I need either. There’s no time like the present to start experimenting.
