Writing creative fiction seems to have a variety of ways to go about the process. Some writers get it all out in one word-vomit, like a painter splashing their canvas to create. Others do it whenever they feel like it, and while the books might take time, they still happen, just without schedule. They’re two ends of a writing spectrum and they’re both absolutely viable.
As someone who copes with ADHD and brain fog, I often find that I need a process that words for me. I used to be the writer who finished works, big works, by furiously writing at all ways. Bipolar mania can definitely seem like a plus in that situation (though I don’t recommend it). I spent two years finishing a story every two days, and then a massive story in addition. I worked a lot and I worked fast.
Then the burnout and the illness happened and I had to rewrite the playbook for myself.
After struggling and grieving over the fact that I had lost the ability to be the kind of writer I always felt I was, I felt like smashing something and never writing again. I don’t think anyone would have blamed me, or likely even cared. The reality of being a writer is that your process and your struggles aren’t half as interesting as what you produce. Unless you are an eccentric celebrity, then I suppose people won’t care about your fiction so much as your struggle.
So after the mourning and the anger and the temptation to sell off my laptop, what could I even come to as a good conclusion? Was I done with writing if my process couldn’t work?
No. I moved backward in a gigantic leap. I aimed for two words on a page every day. That was scoffingly easy, right? Wrong. I still struggled because I felt like a failure. Even setting your expectations way back doesn’t mean you are going to get rid of that doubt and anger.
Two words became ten. Then sentences. Then paragraphs and pages. Slowly, I recovered but in a different way. I aimed for my old NaNoWriMo goals, goals I had once crushed, and I didn’t always meet them.
What I’ve learned is that writing expectations don’t often work. “I must write 1000 words everyday” set me up for failure and disappointment. So I removed the numbers then. I instead sat in my chair and did something that concerned my writing for 15 minute increments, 4 times in a day. They didn’t need to be concurrent. Slowly, those times felt easier because I knew I could rest. I worked slowly, day by day, for a year. And soon I had another novel sitting before me, large and wild, but done.
I celebrated. I high-fived myself. I took a week off and set the book in the drawer to ferment. Then I went back to work, back to struggling and wrestling with a muse.
And slowly, another book is coming to life.
A slow life has its benefits. Removing the necessity, the need that drove me, had felt odd until I realized I felt better about my writing. Slowly working it brought me more joy everyday than rushing through storylines did. For the first time in a very long, I looked forward to writing it and now I look forward to this new piece.
Maybe taking a step back and enjoying the process, savouring it the way you might a delicious treat, is one of the keys to being part of this vocation without losing yourself in the rush for completion.