Just Write 500 Words

On writing a novel.

I just finished reading Turning Pro: Tap Your Inner Power and Create Your Life’s Work by Steven Pressfield. It’s a good book, albeit not a good, I think, title. He talks about an emotional change you have to make to stop being and amateur and become a professional. It’s all good advise, but it bugs me slightly the wrong way, because, etymologically, amateur is someone who does something for the love of it. And you always want to do something for the love of it, otherwise what’s the point. But anyway, etymology aside, there is a lot of wisdom in. Like this: “The sure sign of an amateur is he has a million plans and they all start tomorrow.” Or this: “The professional does not wait for inspiration; he acts in anticipation of it.”

I like to make plans and I wait for inspiration. I also love what I do. I am, by all definitions, his and mine, an amateur.

The new planner arrived in the mail today. It’s a red soft cover A5 Moleskine. I like their planners. I like that the week is on the left and the space for notes is on the right. I like that it’s quite small. The paper is a bit too thin for my liking, the centropens sometimes bleed through, but it’s manageable. I transferred all of my yearly goals in there + one more, the one I didn’t want to share publicly. We will see what comes out of it, but it feels good, exciting, vulnerable, scary all at once.

The year is a marathon, not a sprint, we all know this. We also know gym membership sales go up in January and decline in February. We know resolutions dissolve into mess by March. It’s hard to keep up with yourself, especially deep in the midst of winter. I always read or listen to Wintering this time of year. It’s one of my favourite books on nature? emotional state? It’s beautifully written and makes you think and what else can you really ask for. I am conflicted during this time of year. I want to rest and retreat but I am so full of inspiration, of the new year’s energy.

We are going to Sweden in a few days, and I am preparing for even harsher weather. I don’t think it will be cold per se, most certainly not the Russian cold I am used to, but it will be wet and dark and gloomy, and I am already feeling slightly depleted. Marisa Bate in her last newsletter wrote “The harshness of the winter is what makes us feel alive: a physical, and often beautiful, reminder of the ability to survive, to keep going.” It’s a beautiful way to look at it.

We’re taught that productivity is proof of worth, that constant joy is the goal, and that any pause is a failure. But winter is part of the rhythm. The trees do not apologise for losing their leaves. The ground does not mourn the frost. Nature insists on dormancy as an essential stage of growth. And humans, despite our attempts to live outside of cycles, are not exempt from that truth. We, too, are made to change. We, too, are made to retreat.

When we are in a flourishing season, we can pretend we are limitless. We can keep saying yes. We can keep stretching. But wintering humbles us into honesty. We are fragile. We are cyclical. We are deeply affected by nature, and no amount of willpower can erase that.

Please forgive me for this long metaphor. I got completely lost there for a second.

It was a very long road to come say I am writing a novel and I am stuck.

I can’t find the exact post but I remember Charlotte Stephens wrote about a guy who was writing a novel. No one ever saw that novel, but everyone was talking about the fact that he was writing it. I am ashamed to admit I am that guy. I’ve been talking about this miserable novel for ten years now and counting. In my defence, I do actually work on it, just unbearably slow. I take way too ling pauses in my creative practice. My goal now is to finish this draft by my birthday, March 18. Otherwise I have to shut up about writing a novel and I don’t want to shut up about writing a novel. I quite like the mystic that comes with it. (Hey, did you know she was writing a novel???) And so I write. But it’s hard.

I used to believe that writing required a specific mood. A special kind of quiet. A perfectly arranged morning. The right notebook, the right drink, the right stretch of uninterrupted time. A candle, fireplace scented. I used to believe that if I didn’t feel inspired, I shouldn’t even bother, because whatever I produced would be dull and forced and not worth saving. But the truth is that inspiration is unreliable. The only thing that actually matters is work. In the words of Alexander Mackendrick, work is the only real training.

I don’t have a desk. I don’t have a lot of time. My baby is about to tern six months! I have no time! And it’s somehow both harder and easier this way. I wrote this a while ago: What is it about being a writer that attracts me so much? I don’t exactly find writing enjoyable. I don’t necessarily like the process of writing. Sometimes I don’t like how writing makes me feel. I write because I feet obligated to write by a compulsion. It’s not like I have a choice. Putting words down on paper is therapeutic as much as it is miserable. Even if I don’t write, and I don’t write often, I am thinking about writing constantly. Everything is copy, yes, but also everything is a chance to reinvent yourself — writing, I believe, gives you control because you are in charge of the story.

It’s almost the end of January. Scary how fast time moves. The novelty of the New Years energy is almost gone for me, and the deep dark winter nights are starting to creep in. By the time my daughter goes to bed, I am so exhausted, I make a cup of tea (a glass of wine) and turn on the Office.

I made a promise to myself. Just write 500 words every single day, preferably in the morning. It’s manageable. Small enough that I can’t make excuses, but big enough that it counts. Big enough that it adds up, and quickly too. I could write that in ten minutes if I really wanted to. I don’t but I could.

1000 words is too many words. 500 words is just enough.

Sometimes I open the document and I feel nothing. I reread what I wrote yesterday and wonder who allowed me to think I could do this. I write three sentences and delete them. I get distracted by emails, by laundry, by Bean waking up, by the sudden urgent need to clean a surface that has never bothered me before. On days like that, the mere act of writing feels embarrassing. Like I’m trying to talk at a party and no one is listening. Still, I write. I write badly. I write awkwardly. I write sentences that will never survive revision. Showing up counts so much more than being brilliant. You can not edit an empty page.

Write 500 words. I am talking to you here as much as to myself.