You think writing a book is hard, and it is. However, it’s also true that many people write books. They aren’t all published, and of those that are, few find wide audiences. Writers can’t control these outcomes. They can, however, finish what they start.
My writing practice comes in the form of waves like hypomania (and sometimes, in the form of hypomania). I sit for hours in the evening, after work, without rising until some milestone has been notched: a chapter drafted. A new scene added. A single edit carried through the entire manuscript. Act two read aloud, and the audible mistakes addressed. Sometimes I forget to eat. Sometimes my back and neck kink up. I’m trying to train myself to take breaks.
In the morning, I edit what I wrote the night before. I fix obvious mistakes and add color while last night’s intentions linger. The quick progress fuels anticipation for another evening’s work.
When the energy ebbs, I take days off. Weeks even. I switch genres, or spend more time outside instead, moving. Relating to others who I didn’t see while I remained inside, alone, writing. Declining social opportunities is necessary for me to finish anything.
I find no shame in these unproductive spells because the obsession always returns; in fact, the spiritual rest is what brings it back. Space begets new eyes, and new life.
If the obsession fails to return, either the time or the writer wasn’t right for that piece. It joins a collection of abandoned scraps which I will find in years to come, unearthing a hunger that only finishing can sate.
