In Praise of Not Rushing

"I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by."
—Douglas Adams

I actually like deadlines, which is why I impose them upon myself. It gives me a nice sense of where I am with a project.

But like all my schedules, my writing schedule is flexible and subject to change. I tend to write in prolific bursts, as the mood strikes. Then I have long periods of mulling. I'm a great muller. I enjoy a good mull.

I'm not a Type A writer. I'm more like Type C. I find great creative inspiration in going for long walks and reading related, semi-related, or even totally unrelated books. (But is anything really totally unrelated to anything else? Too deep? OK, never mind.) I don't thrive in a lock-myself-in-a-room-with-a-computer sort of environment. That works for some writers, but I find forced writing reads like it's, well, forced. Ever read a book and think, "at the end, he was just tired of writing and decided to find a way to wrap it up"? I know I have. That's what happens when you try to force it. Well, that's what happens when I try to force it. Some people are energized by being under pressure to produce, just like some people are energized by competition, but those things don't do it for me.

I do a lot of "writing" while riding my motorcycle. Stuff comes to me, I stop, I text it to myself. Later, I cut and paste it into my manuscript. This weekend, I was out of town with my wife and didn't even have my phone with me. So I borrowed hers to text some ideas to myself.

Like all writers, I'm never completely satisfied with my own work, but when I do look at something I've written and feel a sense of pride and satisfaction because it came out more or less the way I wanted it to, I am always convinced that I couldn't possibly have done it in any less time. Often, I believe, the only way a chapter can evolve from adequate to sparkling is with a generous number of days or weeks of focused and/or unfocused contemplation.