Things take the time they take

why does it take so long to write something good

‍

Things take the time they take.
Don't worry.
How many roads did St. Augustine follow before he became St. Augustine?

― Mary Oliver

I believe that ideas are rather like humans. They have to grow [up]; they take time to figure out what they are, in collaboration with you the writer.

Oh, that ideas could just come out fully formed on the page. But this isn’t how it works.

This last month, I was a Visiting Writer at Cornell College teaching a memoir class to undergraduates. I emphasized to my students that they were being graded on revision; that, at this stage in their nascent projects, revision didn’t have to look like line-level perfection. In fact, it shouldn’t. I wanted to see deeper engagement with the material. In their revised first drafts, which were part of their final portfolio, I wanted to see new scenes and dramatic edits, experimentation with structure or style. No first draft comes out pretty, I told them. Good writing is revising, I repeated.

I said it as much for their benefit as for my own.

For the last year, I’ve been working on a book based on this newsletter. (Those of you in the astrology for writers Discord know this, but I think this is my first time speaking about it publicly.) My agent Dana and I are currently in our third round of edits on the 50+ page book proposal. Dana is famously thorough; in these developmental phases, she literally gives beat-by-beat notes. I find this kind of depth helpful, though: in pushing on each and every claim, each and every beat, she pushes me to really hone in on my argument and the very beliefs undergirding the project. I’m always a stronger writer and thinker on the other end of her edits, as I inevitably realize new things about the project I wouldn’t have otherwise let myself have the time to think through.

Which is amusing, given how differently I treat my fiction. It is easy for me to give my in-progress novel the time it takes, to understand and appreciate that the story just needs time to unfold. Dana and I talked at length about this juxtaposition on our latest call, and she observed that writers who do both fiction and nonfiction are often much more forgiving of the process with their fiction than their nonfiction. But this is an unfair double standard. Even nonfiction, she reminded me, is story. It requires time to reveal itself. To find its shape. To make itself known. Just because it’s fact and observation doesn’t mean it comes easier, or faster.

This was a much-needed reminder. Left to my own devices, I am prone to rush my nonfiction. Prone to self-recriminating impatience. But nonfiction is still, often, art. And good art doesn’t just take time; it deserves time.

Part of my frustration with the slowness of the process is the fact that it’s been exactly two years since my first book, Heretic, came out. For a long time, I beat myself up for not having another book out yet. That was the plan, after all: I had another project ready to sell when Heretic was published in 2022, but we never submitted it to Harper because two weeks after my pub day, the Harper union (including almost the entirety of my team) went on strike. That first year post-pub was mostly marked by the grief of a disrupted dream, along with other ideas for book projects that didn’t ultimately stick (I’ve written about walking away from those other projects before). It was a while before my spirit settled.

And so this last year has been a lesson in patience, and in trusting the process. I have learned so much about how a creative practice is different from a creative schedule. In many ways, this book, based on this newsletter and my related spirituality-for-artists work (readings, classes, containers), has kept me accountable. Nothing makes you feel like a hypocrite quite like being knee-deep in edits on a chapter that’s all about letting the art take its time. Working on this book has pushed me back into a closer relationship with lunar cycles (the sample chapter is on the moon), and has helped me be more attentive to how my health and physical energy impact my creativity. It’s helped me work to balance my creative input with output. I’ve been more generous with myself in what I “count” as writing — not just words on the page, but research, long walks listening to character playlists, and more.

Living out — practicing — my belief that art takes time, that ideas are living beings to be collaborated with (and not rushed), has changed me. This is not to say I don’t still struggle with high expectations and capitalist-influenced productivity-mindset. I am frequently impatient. But my relationship to creativity, this last year, especially, has become more gentle, more forgiving. I had a major surgery this summer and actually gave myself six weeks post-op to rest. That alone is a huge change from a few years back, when I got back into Heretic edits soon after a life-threatening health crisis. This year, I’ve been more reasonable with setting deadlines and expectations, more patient with Dana’s edits and my own ability to internalize them. More generous with giving myself time to play (mostly Baldur’s Gate) when my brain is just done for the day.

I’m finally internalizing that being in relationship with creativity is not a destination to arrive at. It is, truly, a relationship: a living, breathing thing that changes based on the day, the mood, the bodily energy. It is something to tend, not to demand of.

These are the beliefs I hope that I’m imbuing into this astrology-for-artists book. More than that, I hope they are ones continue to inform and deepen my creative life for years to come.

‍