Building a life for writing

...sometimes means not writing

What does it mean to live a creative life? How much of your time should be spent pursuing or practising your craft in order to feel you are actively engaged in it and progressing towards your goals? Is it a long-term investment or a short-term failing if I put my writing on the back burner for a while in order to build a life more accommodating of my desire to write?

These are questions I’ve been asking myself lately, as I estimate my writing time has been around 0.25 hours per week for the past several weeks, and only marginally more than that for the few months before. The book I’ve been working on some iteration of for the past four years has not seen the light of day since spring, and even my Substack has been neglected since August.

And it’s not that I don’t want to write; I really do. But a few months ago I decided to go all-in on self-employment, slowly building up my business while extricating myself from my 9-5 job. The idea being that, once self-employed, I’d be more in control of my schedule and income and, eventually, have more time to write. I was under no illusions that this would be a fast or easy process, and I knew that I’d have to diversify my income streams in order to make a living comparable to that of what I was earning as an employee. But as with all new things, even when they are exciting and fun and challenging in a good way, it has required more time and energy to get it off the ground than I anticipated.

At one point this summer, I was logging out of my paid job at 5pm and immediately jumping into work on my business. Dinner would be brought to me, or left in the oven for later. Cups of tea went cold on my desk as I designed and scribbled and strategized. My back ached with inactivity and my ankles swelled from being planted firmly under my desk for hours at a time. It wasn’t long before I sensed burnout coming, could feel its cortisol seeping into my bloodstream and its anxiety-driven insomnia creeping into my brain. I buzzed with productivity and excitement, ticking things off my to-do list at speed, but at a cost I knew too well. Enough now, I admonished myself. Slow down. There’s no rush.

This time I listened, experience and common sense overruling my eagerness and the speed with which ideas popped into my head. This time, I turned down the flame so that it could continue to glow for longer, not crank it up to ten and inadvertently but inevitably burn the whole thing down. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss writing though. The longer it’s been since I looked at my book or even thought about it, the more I worry that it will slip away forever, lost to the sands of paid work that take priority. But this is the case for most of us, only the privileged few able to earn a living solely from their art. And so it is what it is. Building a life where I can be more free creatively is the price my actual creativity is paying.

I find solace in keeping my eyes on the long-term prize, knowing that writing is part of who I am and will never go away. Soon, I hope, I will be able to dedicate more of my time to it, nurturing my projects like the tender shoots of hope they are. Every time I plant a seed, I remind myself that it is for the future. That just because it’s underneath the soil where I can’t see it doesn’t mean it won’t turn into something beautiful someday.

Because living the life I want to live, on my own terms, is also beautiful, also creative, and also meaningful work.