Or, I don’t wish to become a machine.
For those of you who have been following my blog for a while now, you may have noticed that I stopped tracking my writing metrics. Digging back through year-old posts, you might find some of my old excel spreadsheets, which calculated word count in response to what I was drinking, what time of day it was, or even how much sleep I’d had the night before. It may all sound a bit ridiculous, but I was after something. At the time, I had read so many books on productivity and was interested in discovering the exact optimum conditions for me to write.
Influenced by Cal Newport’s thought-provoking works, Slow Productivity and Deep Work, I’ve been prompted to reflect on my own journey as a writer. These books champion the invaluable yet increasingly elusive practice of deep, focused work—free from the incessant distractions of our fast-paced world. Newport’s philosophy resonates deeply with me, echoing my concerns about the current landscape of writing, where authors are often celebrated not for the depth or quality of their work but for their ability to churn out content at breakneck speed.
Quality vs. Quantity; Where is the Balance?
Many productivity books or lectures tell a familiar story about a class of photography students who were divided into two parts. One half of the class was told that for their final assignment they needed to hand in one picture, and that throughout the semester they could take as many as they wanted. The other half had the same final assignment, but those students were only allowed to take one picture. Turns out, the students who were allowed to take unlimited pictures, ended up having the best final pictures because they had more time to experiment with lighting, angles, subject matter, etc. In other words, more is better. But does this translate to all areas of life?
In the self-publishing industry, I often read that “it’s a number’s game,” meaning you’ve got to churn out as much material as possible AND constantly. Of course, the more you write, the more practice and experience you get; thereby becoming a better writer. I read about other authors (all of which I’ve never actually heard of) who were churning out a book a month and earning an honest living. However, when looking at my story ideas, none of them fit neatly into the same template. That churning out a book a month shit not only sounded exhausting, but it doesn’t lend itself to all genres. Did I mention I’d never heard of most of these authors?
Granted, fame isn’t exactly on my to-do list in life. Yet, writing stories that aren’t just stories but carry deeper meaning is on that list.
Self-publishing platforms and social media have democratized the field of writing, offering unprecedented opportunities for authors to share their work with the world. Yet, this blessing comes with a curse—the pressure to produce at an unsustainable pace. Success stories often center around authors who release multiple novels each year, setting a daunting standard for others to follow. This relentless push for quantity over quality is not just a matter of personal ambition but a response to market demands and algorithms that favor frequent publication.
This narrative suggests that the key to visibility and financial success lies in producing a constant stream of content. This mindset leads to a reductionist view of writing, where books are seen as products to be churned out rather than expressions of human experience and creativity. In this environment, the pressure to perform can stifle originality and discourage writers from taking the time to delve deeply into their subjects or hone their craft.
Personally, I thought, “I’ll never be able to write this fast.” I looked at the list of over 80 novel ideas I had and also knew that I’d die before they were all written if I continued at a slow pace. I thought, “If I don’t become a machine, these stories will never make it out into the world,” which haunted me. I tweaked my process any way I could. Not only was I studying metrics, but I tried process improvements strategies by utilizing dictation and even seeing if hiring a ghostwriter might help. In the end, they both ended up creating a bigger mess for me to fix, and were in large part a waste of resources. So, where does that leave me?
I Needed New Way of Living and Working
The idea of taking time to create quality is lost. When the primary goal shifts from creating meaningful art to meeting self-imposed or industry-driven quotas, writing can become a source of stress rather than satisfaction. For many, this relentless pace leads to burnout, a state of emotional, physical, and mental exhaustion that can rob writers of their passion and creativity.This relentless push towards mass production in self-publishing circles is touted as the only viable path to success, turning writing into a numbers game that many feel compelled to play. When I surrendered to these pressures, I noticed the quality of my writing waned, and with it, the very joy and passion that had drawn me to writing in the first place.
I pushed myself beyond my creative capacity more times than I care to count, all in the name of getting another book out. The words that used to flow from a place of inspiration and curiosity became forced. This shift was subtle at first, but over time, the consequences became unmistakably clear: the quality of my work suffered, and the process of writing felt increasingly like a chore rather than a calling. Eventually, exhaustion took hold and I lost what it means to create and to be human.
What I needed, was a slower, more sustainable pace. I needed to learn to sit back and rest, but at that time I saw resting as being lazy or giving up. In my pursuit of quantity, I risked losing sight of what made me fall in love with writing in the first place—the ability to explore complex ideas, and to express something true about the human condition.
I’m still a work in progress. And I’m not so sure that my writing process will ever be set in stone like many other authors boast about. Mine is always evolving and changing with the times. But overall, I’m taking a stand—a stand against being a machine. Instead, I’d like to honor the process as much as the product. All those years of reading about productivity weren’t wasted, but instead of using them to increase the amount of work I can shove onto my plate, I’m now trying to utilize the knowledge to focus my energy on less.
The Art of Slowing Down
My therapist often tells me a common phrase from her Portuguese culture—”I am going slow because I am in a hurry.” It’s something that I’m still learning to embrace. When I look back at some of my stories, they feel formulaic, characters are underdeveloped, and my prose is lackluster. The deeper, more nuanced work that can only emerge from a place of deep focus and unhurried creativity was sidelined, replaced by works that meet the market’s demands but fail to satisfy the soul. They are still good stories, but something deeper is missing.
When it comes to writing, we need to give ourselves permission to slow down, to immerse fully in the creative process, and to prioritize the quality and impact of our work over its quantity. Only by resisting the pressure to become writing machines can we hope to restore the joy and integrity of our craft.
Rediscovering Deep Work and Slow Productivity in Writing
In a landscape saturated with the mantra of “more is better,” the principles of Deep Work and Slow Productivity emerge as beacons of hope for writers seeking refuge from the storm of rapid content production. This means dedicating uninterrupted time to our craft, and immersing ourselves fully in the process of creation. It’s about allowing the mind the space and time it needs to explore ideas deeply, to weave narratives rich with complexity and nuance. It’s an antidote to the burnout-inducing race of constant output, offering a path that values the journey as much as the destination.
Recently, someone reached out to me on LinkedIn with an article on Quentin Tarantino’s creativity routine. You know what he does? He lounges in his pool, in a sort of meditative state, and let’s ideas come to him. I remember evenings and nights like this as a teenager as I sequestered in my room and allowed my thoughts to get lost in a story I was working on, embracing the solitude and deep focused state. Granted, Tarantino is a lot wealthier than I am and doesn’t really need to work another day in his life. But the theory is sound.
We can start on the slow productivity journey by scheduling dedicated writing blocks, free from the distractions of emails, social media, and other interruptions. This focused approach enables us to dive deeper into our stories, developing characters and plots with a level of detail and care that’s simply not possible when our attention is fragmented. Moreover, establishing routine and setting realistic goals (I’m still pretty bad at this), and recognizing that good writing cannot be rushed. It allows for the ebb and flow of the creative process, accepting that some days the words might pour out, while on others, they trickle slowly.
Which is why the most important thing we can do as creatives is embrace rest.
It’s easier said than done, I know. But by embracing rest, writers can begin to shift away from the frenetic pace of content production to a more thoughtful and fulfilling practice. This doesn’t mean the work becomes easier, but it does become more meaningful. We start to see our writing not as a product to be churned out but as a craft to be honed and cherished. In doing so, we not only enhance the quality of our work but also rediscover the joy and passion that drew us to writing in the first place.
Should Knowledge Work Be Measured?
The value of our work cannot be measured solely by the number of words we produce or the speed with which we produce them. If a developer writes 100 lines of code, does that automatically mean that the software works? Do more lines of code signify a superior software? No.
True value comes from the depth of our ideas, the impact of our stories, and the connections we forge with our readers. The journey back to the heart of why we write is not a solitary one. It’s a path we tread together, as a community of writers who dare to define success on our own terms. We seek fulfillment in our work, finding beauty in the process and pride in the art we create. In taking a stand against becoming machines in our writing, we reclaim not only the joy of creation but also our authenticity as storytellers. We remember that at the heart of every word we write is a pulse, a breath of life that speaks of our humanity, our dreams, and our unwavering hope. Let this be the legacy of our work—not how much we wrote, but how deeply it touched the lives of those who encountered it.
As you move forward, I encourage you to reflect on your writing journey, to embrace the slow and steady rhythm that fosters creativity and depth. Share your stories, your struggles, and your victories in embracing a more meaningful approach to writing. Together, let’s inspire a renaissance that celebrates the beauty of thought, the power of patience, and the joy of creation.
Thank you for reading,
Eliza
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