Pop quiz! Studies have shown that creative people are known to:
A) Daydream. A lot.
B) They lose track of time.
C) Have wandering minds.
D) Stare at the wall. A lot.
E) All of the above
If you picked E, you are correct! Successful creatives spend much of their time so deeply immersed in their own internal worlds that, in the eyes of the world, it often appears that they’re doing nothing.
But of course, we know how very untrue that is. Our minds are busy working. Synapses are sparking, neural pathways firing, different corners of our brains coming together, making connections, leaping around seemingly unrelated topics, playing with ‘what if’ possibilities all the time.
The act of thinking used to be a respected one. It was understood that in order to have well-formed ideas and opinions—or even just make good decisions—we had to think about things. But that process doesn’t seem to be held in as much regard anymore. In our productivity-enamored, technology-driven, instantaneous response world, the act of thinking is often considered, at best—quaint, and at its least flattering, an indication of a slow mind. We’re expected to make snap decisions, instantaneous judgments (with or without all the facts, no less!) have ideas gush forth in brainstorming meetings or large, communal bull pit type offices. Then, once the idea has been decided upon, we’re expected to produce, produce, produce non stop in a straight, continuous line until a project is finished. Frankly, I’m exhausted simply writing that paragraph.
So what if your brain doesn’t work that way? Well, now you can take heart in the knowledge that many creative peoples’ don’t and in fact, if your brain doesn’t function that way, perhaps it is due to its creative nature.
For some writers, it takes time to peel off layers of ourselves and weave them into our work. It takes time to observe and study human nature, collecting and appropriating mannerisms, emotional dynamics, and dramas, and then incorporate them into our stories.
This is absolutely not to say that writers or other creatives who are prolific are not creative; creativity comes in many different flavors, sizes, and speeds. But in a world where output, production, and speed are the gold standard, it’s important to remind ourselves that fast doesn’t always mean better. For some people, speed gets in the way of producing their richest, deepest, most creative work.
Even that bastion of productivity, Stephen King, has confessed to having periods of apparent idleness interspersed with frantic bursts of impassioned writing.
Note the word apparent. I’m guessing he couldn’t have one without the other. In fact, those fallow periods are what lead to the frantic production.
I’ve always loved that word fallow. The idea of letting the land lie dormant for a season in order to restore its fertility. But there are lots of terms that work: percolating, stewing, fermenting, gestating. All of the processes take a set of original ingredients and, through the simple alchemy of time, turn them into something more than the sum of their parts. So often we forget that time itself is an essential ingredient to creativity.
Our brain—our subconscious—is doing all sorts of things, even when our conscious mind does not appear to be engaged.
One of my favorite parts of the creative process is discovering the trail of breadcrumbs my subconscious has left me. Those are the bits we put in a story–maybe a line that doesn’t quite make sense at the time–that feel as if they need to be there, so we leave them in. Or a character that comes out of left field, or a plot thread that we hadn’t planned and—-worse!—-we’re not sure where it’s going. But listening to our gut, we leave it in for now, assuring ourselves we can cut it later. Only it turns out, later, when we go back, we see that those bits are absolutely essential to the deeper meaning of our story, or bring a whole new layer of subtext and meaning to the characters’ actions, or allow for a deeper resonance.
That’s our subconscious at work, making the connections and building the links that we didn’t even realize would be the most critical parts of our story. And sometimes, oftentimes, that really can’t be rushed without sacrificing depth or quality.
I also suspect that, early in our writing journeys, the stories just gush out. We have such a backload of stories we want to tell, of things we want to say, and they burst out of us fast and glorious, like a geyser. But eventually, that initial flow slows and we become more intentional and discriminating in what stories we choose to spend our creative capital on.
I want to be clear that fallow periods and daydreaming aren’t about waiting around for the muse to show up or waiting on inspiration. This is about giving ideas the time they need to fully develop. It’s about staring at the wall and thinking about the story, thinking about the characters and the themes and the deeper meanings behind it all rather than getting words on a page to meet a daily goal. Maybe that means doing a lot of pre writing or story journaling, or writing a bazillion drafts. Whatever method works for allowing you the time you need to fully develop your ideas and let them ripen and mature. And sometimes, to the rest of the world, it can look a lot like simply doing nothing. So maybe instead of feeling pressured to hit the keyboard or pick up that pencil before you’re ready, give yourself permission to stare at the damned wall.
The thing is, there are so many reasons to rush: to finally hook an agent, to get published, to generate enough income to quit your day job or pay off your student loans, or to produce a book a year so that the reading public doesn’t forget you.
But it’s important to keep in mind that there are many writers for whom the announcement of a new book is an event. Donna Tartt, Michel Faber, Meghan Whalen Turner, Patrick Rothfuss, and George R. R. Martin to name a few. The world will happily wait the required time it takes them, because they know that the payoff will be great. They know that the book will be rich and layered and nuanced and full.
So maybe instead of frantically meeting your daily word goal or making sure you spend three hours each day with your butt planted in the writing chair, allow yourself to go forth and do nothing—proudly. It just might be the best thing you can possibly do for your story.
About Robin LaFevers
Robin LaFevers is the author of seventeen books for young readers, including the HIS FAIR ASSASSIN trilogy about teen assassin nuns in medieval France and the upcoming COURTING DARKNESS. A lifelong introvert, she currently lives on a blissfully quiet hill in Southern California.
Robin, I really like your idea here balance and allowing “off” time to have a place in the process. “Ripen and mature” are lovely words!
I know for me, there’s usually a period between the first bit of inspiration for a story and the time when I actually start writing. Sometimes, I’m actively thinking about that new idea, but more often than not the new idea is sent off to the background, where it clatters around the back room of my mind and bumps into other stuff while I do other things. There’s a phase for me where it’s best not to think too hard about that new idea, because it needs that time to rattle and develop on its own.
Robin, you are so wise. I finding myself in this day-dreamy state even as my rational mind tells me to hurry up and finish this round of revisions. But another part of my mind won’t let me rush. After a busy summer with the kids, I am thankful to not be under contract so that I can spend the necessary time sitting out on my back porch, doing a whole lot of nothing.
As always, thank you for a lovely post.
Thanks, Robin. Writers gain incredible insights by ruminating and pondering the possibilities. That quiet time that we spend mulling over our stories is so valuable and yields so much fruit. I have experienced what Stephen King observed, periods of no activity followed by a prodigious creative output. That doesn’t mean writers should abandon the daily habit, but we must be cognizant of the need to step away from our work from time to time and let our brains work.
Thank you. “The act of thinking used to be respected.”
Can we call it slow writing? Like the slow food movement.
In my other job, I often say that I am a slow thinker. Not stupid. Just slow. I often envy quick-witted people. And now, with two young adult children very like me, I find myself reassuring them that it’s ok to say “I’m sorry. I’m busy.” to requests for their time when the busyness involves reading or working on a creative project or, in my case, writing. It’s just as valid as going to a paying job or to a movie with friends. Thank you for this encouragement.
Hi Robin–
So many points in your post deserve to be praised, but those I most appreciate figure at the beginning. You describe how our fast-is-better world now views careful thought as at best “quaint.” Then you accurately pinpoint the effect this attitude has had on writers: “…in a world where output, production, speed, and fast turnaround are the gold standard, it’s important to remind ourselves that fast doesn’t always mean better.”
So true, and “gold standard” is an apt phrase. Because today, the reality for all writers–in particular self-publishers–is one that emphasizes production, not quality. The more titles a writer can produce, the more opportunities for cover reveals, marketing and sales. Writers are still urged to “write the best book you can,” but this caution is more and more a matter of paying lip service to the past. What’s really important is pumping out lots of work, and this in turn encourages writers to work in genres where formulas and templates can be used to speed things up.
As you say, some very good writers are capable of doing both–writing fast and well. But they are oddities. And I would argue that no one seeking to write a truly individual story–one that respects its characters and readers–is likely to crank it out in three or six months. It can be done, and writers whose main concern is income are being urged to try. But it’s a delusion to think value and meaning aren’t sacrificed in the process.
Thanks again. Your post and so many others at Writer Unboxed demonstrate why this site is the “gold standard” for writers.
Yes. Yes! EMPHATIC YES!
Robin, thank you so much for this. I’ve believed for a long time that the creative mind requires down-time from linear activity in order to exhale. When I first started focusing seriously on my writing, I took a job with a local farmer. He set me to pruning his peach trees. When I was deeply engaged in not lopping off my own fingers, and surrounded by all that silence (wind, birds, ahhh), ideas started bubbling up; snatches of dialogue, answers to dilemmas. I started keeping paper in my pocket. I do it still. I got yelled at as a child for daydreaming. Now I cherish the ability to ‘zone’. Its part of the work. And yes, the word ‘fallow’ is beautiful.
Robin, this just might be my favorite WU ever! Giving ourselves permission to mine our subconscious is becoming more and more difficult in this digital, 24/7 world. Djsconnecting from our devices and connecting to the depths within us is critical, not only as writers but as human beings. That’s where the good stuff is often found, but only if we allow ourselves to stop our outward focus and choose to focus inward. It doesn’t have to be any kind of traditional meditation at all. I call it my “staring time,” when I just do nothing with my eyes open. My favorite words of yours today… “peel off layers of ourselves and weave them into our work.” So wonderful, Robin. Thanks a bunch!
One of my favorite topics! I find there are two kinds of ‘not focusing’.
One is the daydreamy kind where you drift off and dream in soft focus, letting your mind wander wherever it will over your story and characters (or not). Soaking in a bath or swimming, walking the dog or going for a long, long hike, weeding, and yes, washing up…
The other is where you try not to think about your work but allow your subconscious work in its own way by doing something totally different that requires your total focus – for example, Susan Setteducato’s pruning, or a complicated dance class, your accounts, a blog post.
Thanks for a great moment of contemplation this morning!
I am am avid chess player and if there’s one necessity to that game, it’s that you do a lot of thinking between moves. I find this helps when it comes time to write, since I spend a lot of labor-intensive time thinking.
Permission to think is a great reminder! And I love what you have to say about the subconscious leaving us breadcrumbs. Perhaps it’s not just permission, but willingness to think as well. That willingness allows us to discover ideas that otherwise remain hidden in our haste to grab only the ones immediately apparent to us.
Yesterday, after Lisa Cron’s excellent post my story universe went bang with a new idea I’ve been exploring. This didn’t happen with pen and paper and filling in sheets. It happened with a double espresso, time spent drawing (I do this every day for relaxation), then, after some jotting and reading (I’m now well into Wired for Story, and wow!), I took the little ideas I’d developed and took a 30 minute walk. I accomplished in that 30 minute walk what often I’d be lucky to accomplish in 2 days of hard writing. In fact, I want to say I accomplished what I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish at all because my mind was free and, like sequencing the possible next chess move, I discovered many more ways to put my ideas together than if I’d just started writing and pigeonholing myself. The subconscious rewarded me because I was willing to let it talk.
I have to admit I chuckled when I read your post, though: before picking up my phone to read my emails and WU post, I’d spent 20 minutes staring at the wall with a cup of coffee.
Bless you, Robin! This is wonderful. And I do require time, even for each session, reclining with cap brim pulled down, fingers entwined on tummy. No, it’s not napping – it’s visualizing!
I’ve been feeling sort of sucky about the state of my current rewrite. I worried I wasn’t changing it enough, that it hadn’t evolved (I’ll refrain from using the Titanic deck chairs analogy). Last night my wife (bless her, too) sensed I’d slipped beyond my usual distraction into something darker. I admitted my fears about the rewrite, and she started ticking off new elements and describing new layers (and here I was wondering if she ever listened to my story blather). Sure enough, it’s evolving.
It’s happening slowly, and so much of what I’m doing has been decided on over months of pondering, much during a fallow period last spring. I must trust the muse that brung me along this meandering trail.
Thanks again for always finding the way to soothing my writerly angst, Robin!
Wonderful post. Staring at the wall doesn’t work for me, but taking a walk sure does. I think of it as refilling the tanks. I’ve worked out many plot snags, received much inspiration.
I especially relate to your line, “…those bits are absolutely essential to the deeper meaning of our story, or bring a whole new layer of subtext and meaning to the characters…” I’m big on revising and editing, but I’ve also started to look more closely at what I’ve written before I cut it. There are sometimes telling details embedded within. (Author of Her Sister’s Shadow and Little Island.)
THANK YOU!!! THANK YOU!!! THANK YOU!!! two fold: first of all for quantifying my brain – I didn’t think that was possible!!! and sub-first, it’s always good to know that I’m not alone in my stare-at-the-wall (or -trees) weirdness; and second, I’m suffering extensive stress and malaise and now I know why: I’m not staring at the trees (wall) enough!!! i.e. marketing and planning!!! [but it must needs be done, ugh!]
WONDERFUL POST!! WELL DONE!!
If others could see the activity behind our blank stares, they’d be amazed.
Since I work full-time, my weekends are devoted to writing. I treasure and use every minute. The past four-day Labor Day weekend in a cabin was a precious valuable gift. And what did I do? Nothing. I stared a lot, napped, walked my dog. I decided to say I was “mulling.” I felt so guilty not writing nor drawing. Robin, I’m relieved to hear that you confirm that we creatives need fallow time Thanks!
I needed to hear this today, Barbara. Or maybe even the last two months. I pushed hard to make a deadline in April and found myself drooling for about three months. I could hardly make myself write. I’m gearing up again, but it is heavily interspersed with fallow periods.
Another great word for that is what I like to call marinating. That’s what my brain has been doing. :) Great post!
Love this post. I spend months thinking and feeling a story through. It may come flashes of images at its most magical, and in a slow, steading hum, when I’m working out knots. But, I know for me this works.
I dropped a “y” there. But either definition really works, steadying or steading. Because it’s also the base things come from. :)
I remember teachers criticizing students (me included) during classes for staring out the window and daydreaming. Okay, perhaps my daydreams during Geometry didn’t do much to help me grasp the concepts–I never did do better than a C in any math class–but the message was sent in all classes, and it was clear: Idle thinking (idle from the perspective of the other person) was unproductive, a Waste of Mental Resources.
Remember the movie, UNCLE BUCK? The asst principal complains his niece is a ‘bad egg’ because she is ‘a dreamer and a sillyheart.’ It’s certainly been a long time since I saw six, but dreaming wasn’t tolerated then and it hasn’t become any more respectable over the decades. Too many dreamers–and I number among them–run into people like this fictional (or is she?) asst principal, who regard writers as unserious and time-wasters, especially during the dreaming part of the task. Unless, perhaps, a writer is published and a big money-maker, and even then I’m not sure writers are proof against the criticism of wasting time as they wander in woods, stare at a wall, or doodle.
We spin gold with our daydreams and then we translate this gold into words, which requires hard work and concentration. But the dreams come first.
Thanks for today’s excellent post. It’s clear you touched a lot of fellow dreamers.
I am a constant wall-starer, window-looker-outer, star-gazer kind of writer. The plots and twists usually come while taking a long quiet walk, or just sitting and focusing on the ceiling.
This morning on another blog someone asked, “What is it like to write a book?”
I replied:
It’s like entering a dark cavern through an opening barely large enough for my body. Once inside wet drips echo from far in the back, so I know it is deep. My footsteps reverberate off the walls, telling me it is wide. A cool smelling breeze hisses above of my head, this is a very tall space. I light a match and catch a glimpse of detailed cave paintings, colorful beasts and men, stars and trees, river…things.
A throaty rumble from far within and my match burns out. Something lives in here. I can no longer see the entrance. I must go through, deeper in, farther down. Escape is only possible through forward motion.
I hear whispered voices.
…it is not the voices of my Leprechaun friends….
Thank you for articulating the value of the subconsciousness. For a long time, I’ve insisted that good ideas take thinking time yet so much of our world won’t allow that. In the meantime, I go my own way…
And all this time I thought it was just me.
Funny, reading through this article kinda put a lot of stuff into perspective. As a graphic designer that is pushed to come up with a logo design in a short period of time I find I can come up with a concept that makes my client happy but leaves me thinking that I could have done better. Unfortunately I find that after the client has paid their invoice ind implemented the artwork I’ll come up with the tweak that was needed to make the logo perfect. Another thing I also find is that when you give yourself time over night you get some great results. I like to go to bed thinking of a project and more often that not wake up with a solution or at lease some really good avenues I hadn’t explored. I totally agree that time is one of the most important ingredients in the creative process.
What a super article. The writer, the literary life, seems to have become burdened with the ‘stuff’ of the commercial world and, for some, it’s the pursuit of churning out a book a month (likely an ebook – not to denigrate the entire industry). It would be easy to lose one’s soul in this new ‘creative’ world.
I’m thinking right now of an author, a very good one, previously productive and an oft-recognized creator of books and movies, who has been unable to complete anything for four years. Is it surprising when the literary life is too busy to take time to think.
Even in the 50s, I think it was then, Tennessee Williams took himself off to Mexico to escape the rat-race and find a quite place to write.
You’re preaching to the choir, Robin, with today’s post. On the weekends, I often wake up early to stay in bed, stare up at the faces on my ceiling, and unknot the snarls in my WIP. I ask my characters “would you do this? Or that? Why or why not?” I play out in my head one path over another and see how it makes me feel. This time is critical to the creating process. And it’s the gift I always give to myself. Thanks for reminding us that were not alone in this way of being and, better, that it’s ok and necessary.
Sophia Ryan / She Likes It Irish
Where’s the applause gif?
I do find that after a day of intense writing, I need a fallow day to let the well refill. I used to despair, wishing I could be the type of writer who could continually pump out good solid writing day in and day out, but I think I’ve accepted that I need some breathing room to let my brain do its thing.
I loved this post. Good encouragement for those of us who only feel as if we’re getting anything done by doing ten million things done at once–which just means nothing gets finished. :/ This post made me recall the beloved memory of my sisters and I playing Risk, the game of world domination, with our father. He would take FOREVER to make his move, planning out every possible outcome of every strategy. Turns out, he won a lot. Intelligence really does require time to actually just sit and think! Who would’ve thought?
I was just thinking about this as part of my creative process. I used to get frustrated with it, now I am embracing it: I sit down and write all the parts that are in my head at the moment, then I go wash dishes, scrub floors or go for a run- its best if its something repetitive. When I come back to it, my subconsious has new things to add.