Get (Back) Into A Writing Habit
Looking to develop a writing habit? Looking to get back on track with a writing habit that has been derailed by, well— life?
This month here at Rabble HQ, we’re all about how to get (back) into writing, no matter your skill level or how long you might have been out of the game.
Inspired by a recent return to (slow) running after a somewhat extended break, I was inspired to apply the same sort of thinking to my creative endeavors— and the result has been that I’m a lot kinder to myself, am enjoying my writing more, and, most importantly, am back in a regular habit.
You don’t need to be a runner (or walker, or practitioner of yoga or fencing or Zumba) to follow these tips, I promise!
This week: mindset.
01. START SMALL.
If you’ve ever followed a beginner’s running plan, you’ll know that you don’t start out running for extended periods. In fact, you’re unlikely to run for more than a minute or so at a time. Most beginner plans intersperse running or jogging with bouts of walking, so you can gradually build up physical endurance.
The benefit of this approach is that it affords greater protection from injury while providing an opportunity to grow stamina. Psychologically, however, this approach also works well because it sets up realistic goals beginners can actually meet. We may not be able to run for ten minutes, but we can jog for thirty seconds or a minute. Each time we meet a goal, we feel good about it, and we build momentum to continue.
If you’re looking to build a consistent writing practice, whether you’re a complete beginner or an old hand who has taken a break, it can help to take a similar approach to your creative work as the returning runner does to their training.
Tip number one: start small. Like, really small. Smaller than you think, smaller than you’d ideally like. Think of those beginner running plans with their one, two, five-minute intervals. Set a timer for five or ten minutes.
You can take the running analogy further, by breaking your small goal into even smaller intervals still: try three bursts of five minutes across the course of a day.
02. DITCH THE COMPARISON.
I’m not a particularly fast runner. I’m also not a marathoner: I’ve done a half, and I think that’s my preferred ceiling, distance-wise. Most of my runs are between two and four miles long. And: I’m OK with all of that. I don’t wake up expecting to have magically morphed into Paula Radcliffe or Susie Chan (my very favorite Peloton running instructor, btw). I don’t tell myself that as I’m never going to be an Olympian or run the Marathon des Sables, there’s no point running at all or working to improve. I know that while I may never brandish a gold medal, with practice, I can become better than where I began, and that in the meantime, I can enjoy the process of running itself and the freedom and escape it affords me.
If I wouldn’t compare my running career to that of Peloton coach and marathoner-extraordinaire Susie Chan’s, why would I compare my creative work to long-established writers at the very top of their game?
If I wouldn’t interpret Susie’s success as evidence I shouldn’t even bother going out on my thrice-weekly jaunts around my neighborhood, why would I ever imagine that because Hilary Mantel or Helen Oyeymi or Julietta Singh exist, that I shouldn’t bother trying to work on my own craft? If I wouldn’t compare my running career to that of Susie Chan’s, why would I compare my creative work to established writers at the very top of their game? If I wouldn’t interpret Susie’s success as evidence I shouldn’t even bother going out on my thrice-weekly jaunts around my neighborhood, why would I ever imagine that because Hilary Mantel or Helen Oyeymi or Julietta Singh exist, that I shouldn’t bother trying to work on my own craft? Does the fact we might never be as good (or anywhere close) as our idols mean we shouldn’t even bother?
No: of course it doesn’t. When we use the running analogy, this seems patently obvious: you don’t have to be Mo Farah to enjoy running, to want to improve, to enjoy success. So why do we compare ourselves so ferociously when it comes to creative work?
If you find yourself paralyzed by self-doubt and endless comparison, know that you are not alone. I’ll paraphrase Ira Glass here and say that as a writer, you likely have great taste in literature (and, accordingly, high standards and lofty goals), but that it’s essential to know any quality discrepancy between what you love to read and what you can produce is not evidence you should quit. Know that you can improve from where you are, and keep your eyes on the road in front of you.
The only person you’re racing here is yourself.
03. IT’S ALL ABOUT CONSISTENCY.
Ask any runner for advice about getting into running (or back into it), and they’ll likely talk about ‘time on your feet’ or ‘miles under your belt.’ What they mean by this is simple: we get better through practice. One sole run (however long or demanding) a week does not an improved runner make. Instead, we aim for a certain number of sessions: three times a week, say. Our goal is a consistency of practice. We understand that consistency will develop a foundation of fitness and skill.
Much has been written about writing every day, or near every day. In my view, writing frequently affords the same benefits as training regularly: we build momentum, our ‘fitness’ improves, we come to view the practice as just something we do, rather than something we have to debate doing. We build habits, and, little by little, those habits stack up into improved performance and perhaps, the achievement of a concrete goal (a 5K, an improved mile pace, a completed manuscript or poem).
If you can’t make writing a daily habit, try to build it into your week at least three or four times. Remember: you don’t need to be going for marathon (pardon the pun) sessions here—ten, fifteen, twenty-minute bursts all count. The goal is to be consistent and to develop a writing habit.
04. Celebrate the wins, however small.
I remember running my first 5K after an extended break from running. It had taken a while to build up my fitness again, and my progress had been slow due to general life busyness. But, with consistent training, I got there, and I felt almost giddy with pleasure, even though in the past I’d run longer distances, and quicker. I felt so good, you see, because it wasn’t about what I had been able to achieve in the past or what I might be able to accomplish in the future: it was about what I had managed to do that day, then and there.
Each week I’d completed my 5K training sessions, I allowed myself a moment of celebration. Nothing particularly fancy: a cup of good coffee, perhaps, a glossy magazine, an hour with a book, or simply permission to recline on the sofa and binge my latest Netflix favorite.
As you meet your (realistic, achievable) writing goals, allow yourself a similar moment to bask in your own magnificence. Written for ten minutes four times this week after a break of six months? That’s brilliant. Finished a draft you’ve had hanging about your desk for the better part of a year? Yes to you!
Don’t let thoughts of what is to come, or what you’d like as an eventual outcome, take you out of the moment of celebrating the wins, however small.
If, in week 1 of my 5K plan, when I was pleased to have run for multiple one-minute intervals, I’d become preoccupied with the thought of running for thirty minutes or more— well, suddenly my one-minute efforts wouldn’t seem so good— even though they were absolutely still worth celebrating, given I’d not run further than a few steps for the previous eight months.
Stay in the moment, and celebrate your wins.
In summary: this month we’re being gentle with ourselves, being kind, while still holding ourselves accountable for developing a consistent practice. I don’t know about you, but this is something I desperately need as we enter our third year of a global pandemic: when it feels tough to keep our heads above water, a reminder to start small and steady, to have realistic and achievable goals, to celebrate our successes, feels like the advice I didn’t know I needed.
