A manifesto against writing routines
There are other ways to do the thing.
As with most internalized white supremacist patriarchal capitalism, the things many of us tell ourselves about our writing are often brutal and entirely unhelpful. Here’s a brief selection of some of the vitriol I’ve leveled at myself over the years:
You’re a terrible writer. (Translation: You used the same word twice in one sentence, on a rough draft).
You’re so lazy, you’ll never finish. (Translation: You took a day off because you were exhausted).
You’re wasting your time and everyone else’s. (Translation: Even though your project is challenging, you haven’t given up on it).
Many of us learned to write in systems that value rote productivity and efficiency, in which “failure” must be punished. Unsurprisingly, this mindset often leads to burnout and feeling stuck. We’re told that the problem lies with us: we failed to maintain a consistent writing routine, or were too lazy to start one in the first place.
SOS: If you are in need of urgent writing help, scroll down to the section titled “Looking In and Out” for concrete writing tips.
Even when we know it shouldn’t be this way, we’re embedded in these punitive systems and it can feel impossible to do things differently. If a full-scale revolution in your approach to writing seems like a little too much right now, there are some smaller readjustments you can make. Slowly, over time, you can do things differently.
I believe that a key first step is to move away from the idea of a writing routine (inflexible and often daunting) and towards the idea of a writing practice (adaptable and eternally “in progress”). Routines usually look the same from day to day, so missing a day or doing it differently can feel like failure. Practice, on the other hand, is just that: trying it out each day, seeing what works, and learning from what doesn’t.
That practice can and should vary tremendously from person to person, but I believe there are 3 important features of a sustainable writing practice:
Tailored: Your writing practice is undoubtedly cobbled together from techniques you’ve learned from others, but the specific mix of techniques, and the particular way that cobbling happens, are unique to you. It can take time and experimentation to discern which techniques fit your personality, your life, and your capacities, and the process is never complete (see the next point!). But a writing practice that feels comfortable and doable is one that takes you into account — everything from the type of workspace you like, to how you take notes, to how you move from the initial spark of an idea to an argument that you can articulate to someone else.
Adaptable: At some point, something will destabilize your practice. This is inevitable. It might be related to the project itself (like realizing new research is required or that a book was just published on your precise topic), or it could be a major shift in your life circumstances (a move, a child, a new job, a significant loss). Learning how to anticipate obstacles, how to devise strategies for getting through or around them, and how to recover, are all essential in developing a practice that is sustainable over time.
Kind: Writing practices founded on punitive values sometimes “work,” if by “work” we mean that some writing gets produced. But if your approach to writing involves shaming and belittling yourself, I would gently suggest working towards a different model. Writing will often be hard, sometimes almost unbearably so, but enduring occasional discomfort in order to finish a project that means a lot to you is not the same as shaming yourself in order to get something done, or feeling like you should be punished if you don’t achieve certain milestones. Discomfort is not antithetical to care, but punishment is. You can achieve your writing goals without punishing yourself, and in doing so you send a powerful message to your colleagues and students that another way is, indeed, possible.
Looking In and Out
Looking In
What’s in a routine?
To explore what the idea of a “writing routine” means to you, try a little free association:
Close your eyes, and reflect on the word/concept of “routine.” What words, images, embodied sensations, and/or memories come up?
After a few minutes, or whenever you feel ready, list everything that came up (as much as you can remember), without filtering yourself. Even if it seems unrelated, write it down anyway!
Re-read the list and notice:
What surprises you?
What negative associations came up?
What neutral or positive associations came up?
Make a separate list of anything that’s helpful for you in the concept of “routine,” as well as any ideas or associations that make the concept unhelpful for you.
The idea here isn’t necessarily to stop using the word to describe your writing practice (though you might!), but to consider all the things this concept entails for you. Some of these things might be important to carry forward, while there may be others you’d like to let go of.
Looking Out
My hands-down favorite book on academic writing is Michelle R. Boyd’s Becoming the Writer You Already Are. If you only read one, let this be the one! Dr. Boyd’s concrete techniques are invaluable, as is her revolutionary approach that frames self-awareness and kindness as foundational for exploring and deepening your own unique writing process.
“So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters.”
— Virginia Woolf (A Room of One’s Own)