“I don’t want to be the person who always talks about writing and never does.”

Be honest. How often do you talk about something, probably fun or exciting, something you genuinely want to do, genuinely mean to do, which then doesn’t happen? If you’re a writer especially, probably a lot.

See, writers talk a lot. About their plans. About their plots. About their characters. And all this is fine, except when talking becomes a replacement for doing — hence the fear in the leading quote, up there. Because how many people out there claim to write, and don’t?

The thing is that I think writers feel obligated to talk about their writing, as much as they enjoy it also. Not just in terms of having ‘writer groups’ and suchlike — but as a burden of responsibility driven by the need to prove that writing is a legitimate act. The idea in our society that writing is a waste of time (and the dichotomy wherein it is both venerated and demeaned) is a whole other post: but I’m convinced that one of the results of it is that writers feel compelled to discuss.

There are other things, no doubt. Marketing. ‘Branding’. Engaging with fans. All of these are obligations.

Writers talk. Writers talk a lot. Writers are often happy to talk about their work. And for many, having the onus of putting it out there to people who will hold them accountable can help writers write.

But …

That’s not how it works for me. I’ve gotten more open about sharing unfinished things with my closest friends in the last few years, but even still, my default is: don’t talk about a thing until it’s ready. This isn’t always a good thing, especially for things other than writing: I’m not a hugely communicative person except for a select handful of people, even when I perhaps should be. I have trouble talking about things I have in progress outside of my immediate friend group, because I’m afraid of judgement or having to explain. But sometimes, when I don’t talk, it’s not because I’m afraid of something unfinished being judged.

For me, the act of creation and learning is hugely personal and self-intimate. My process of curiosity and realisation are things I want to keep quiet until I know where I stand, where I might go, and that I have enough momentum behind me to be confident in saying ‘this is where I am’. When it comes to writing, I don’t like the feeling of needing to be guilted into doing something by saying it out loud to someone else. If I can’t write for me, then something has gone wrong.

So, most often, I don’t talk about new projects I’m contemplating. When I have trouble writing regularly, I talk about writing less, not more.

Talking about writing can become performative. It can be a procrastination. Sometimes it’s a lot easier to talk about the things you want to write, instead of writing them. In those moments, I think it’s worth remaining quiet; but not out of shame or hopelessness or a sense of having nothing ‘worthwhile’ to say. Simply in order to sit with your creativity, your ideas, and be at peace with where it’s at, no matter how small it is.

Talking about what you’re creating puts onus on your creativity to produce. When you’re feeling stressed, there’s no greater gentleness than to withhold from planning or plotting, and hold your ideas small and sacred in your heart until they’re ready to bloom. When it does, you can know for certainty that the creation came because of and for you.

So, next time you feel compelled to speak about your writing, but find it difficult to produce — say nothing, and let it be nurtured in the silence.

Slightly late post this week. A friend gifted me with the Destiny 2: Beyond Light legendary edition and suffice to say we were ever so slightly distracted. It’s proven a decent incentive though, because this week I’ve been focusing on finishing out the first edits for the fourth book of Broadsides, and my greatest regret is how difficult it was to even start.

There’s a couple of reasons for that (burnout and election timing being two of them), but one of them includes the fact that the first three chapters had some extensive setting-related research involved. The vast bulk of new words that needed to be written and changes that needed to be made were at the beginning.

Now, normally I edit creatively, not critically. The two non-writing-related reasons meant that my critical brain was front and centre and it took a couple of weeks for me to realise that that could only be cured by writing something shamelessly indulgent (see last week’s post). That finally got my creative voice into gear, where it belongs.

That didn’t solve the issue that words written three months ago needed a lot of help to get where we wanted them to be. If we’d just done them shortly after the chapters were written, it wouldn’t be so difficult now. And these weren’t even hold-up-the-book edits — those always get done right away, because the story can’t proceed without them. These were ‘non-vital to the story going ahead, definitely vital to immersion and logistics’.

It’s even more frustrating because I already know the value of editing as I write. It’s just that I’m discovering several habits and beliefs systems I didn’t realise I’ve developed which are getting in the way.

One of them is the ‘I’ve done the work [writing], I’ll do that later’ excuse. That tends to be my habit for easier edits, which is silly, because if they’re easy I can just knock them out now. And yet.

The harder edits are more difficult because somewhere along the line I’ve internalised that only new words count as ‘writing’. There’s a reason for that viewpoint: if only new words count, then it prevents procrastinating by getting trapped in research hell. If research doesn’t count as writing, then I can’t just get stuck looking at interesting things or rereading old words and call it a good day’s work. If it doesn’t progress the story, it doesn’t count.

However …

Somehow, that justifiable thinking has gotten warped. I’m fairly sure it’s due to both the sprint-testing I did earlier on in the year — you know, the ones which value speed and word count over anything else — and also more deeply ingrained NaNoWriMo thinking that tells me it’s okay to write crappily as long as I write.

And, to be perfectly clear: that thinking is a necessary part of writer growth. Writing crappily is better than writing nothing, always. But a writer will always reach a stage of craft where writing well is better than writing crappily, in which case ‘writing crappily’ is an excuse, not a release. There are times when a writer may need to revert back to that just to get stuff done (this year has seen a lot of that for a lot of professional writers, I’m sure). But, on the whole, I’m at a stage of my crafting chops when that’s rarely the best course of action.

Add that to the sprints thinking, which focus on only writing at certain times for certain lengths and aiming for higher word counts and —

Yeah. I’ve trained myself that I can’t write at any time I want, and that if I want to write I can’t edit, what are you thinking, only new words count. The end result is that I’m stuck, not galvanised, and refining my words has become work, not play.

I dislike leaving editing for later. I dislike that I’ve trained myself into a thing that can be put off. Editing used to be one of my favourite stages. It meant I got to reread the story I was writing — the story I was enjoying. I dislike that editing has become a Chore To Be Done. I reject the idea that it has to be. I’m disappointed that I fell into that trap.

And I’m determined to change that.

This last year has been about learning. I’ve done a lot of things wrong in trying to figure shit out. This next year will be about making things as simple and painless for myself as possible, in order to remain joyful.

That means learning how to bundle writing and editing together, so that editing can become the joy it was, and not a pain in the ass for my future-self who just wants to get the business stuff done.