The Art of Slow Writing: Pacing Yourself in the Digital Age
After my son was born, I rocked my new baby to sleep one afternoon and found myself asking the question, deep down, I knew would surface eventually: How will I write? Most of the answers I’ve discovered lie in slow writing, a philosophy anchored in seasonality and intention. It’s about observing our daily energy levels and making decisions from there, not forcing ourselves to power through. It’s about embracing natural ebbs and flows with compassion, not feeling like we’re behind if we rest and wait. It’s also a practice. This will never be perfect, but if you’re longing to set down the mantle of hustle and urgency, you’re in the right place.
What Is Slow Writing?
Slow writing is rooted in the belief that we create at our own pace, mimicking the wise cycles of nature and our bodies, to bring our stories forward in a sustainable way.
Choosing slow writing means you resolve to pursue what’s most essential during the season you’re in, to care for your body and mind, and live a well-blended life—family, work, writing, and the rest of it.
This can look like focusing on one project at a time, rather than three or four. It can look like saying no to an opportunity. It can look like tracking how our energy ebbs and flows over the course of a menstrual cycle and then layering in our writing on days when we have more reserves. It can look like taking a nap instead of writing. It can look like no longer holding yourself to an unrealistic standard that stems from the publishing industry or productivity culture rather than your own wellspring.
Slow Writing Inspiration
From food to fashion, here are a few pioneers whose philosophies are good places to take inspiration when you’re feeling the pull to speed up.
ALICE WATERS
My own pursuit of slow writing started with slow food. After watching the documentary Food, Inc., my husband and I started shifting our eating habits—less meat but better quality, farmers’ market produce whenever possible, and choosing organic when we could. In Europe, slow agriculture methods were already growing when Alice Waters implemented these ideas in the United States. In the 1960s, she started working with local farmers to produce seasonal, vegetable-forward menus for her Berkeley, California restaurant, Chez Panisse. (The slow food agriculture movement was already growing in Europe during this time.)
“Our full humanity is contingent on our hospitality; we can be complete only when we are giving something away; when we sit at the table and pass the peas to the person next to us we see that person in a whole new way.” —Alice Waters
KATE NORTHRUP
Kate’s an author and entrepreneur, and her “do less” philosophy has resonated with me from the start. In a digital age that makes you feel behind before getting out of bed in the morning, Kate’s approach is a refreshing way to move through the world.
“When you do less, you have more energy, time, and enthusiasm for the things that matter the most to you. And focusing in on those catapults your results in ways that feel miraculous but turn out to be a logical result of giving what matters your attention.”
—Kate Northrup
JEN CARRINGTON
UK-based creative coach Jen Carrington has some advice for bloggers and business owners: quality over quantity. That means you don’t have to publish new posts twice a week, upload new Instagram posts every day, or anything else you feel like you should do in the online space.
“If your intentions behind your blog are to create with purpose, drive, and direction, taking a quality over quantity approach may give you the space you need to really create.”
—Jen Carrington
ELIZABETH SUZANN
From her Nashville studio, Liz Pape has built a community around her sustainable fashion brand, Elizabeth Suzann. That means pieces are handmade, waits are long (upwards of six weeks), and new designs are intentionally created. Time and time again, Liz has chosen to grow her business slowly—delaying seasonal launches, only accepting as many orders per week as her team can handle, and so on.
“I think... women in general, specifically women who are making things and working, need to be able to move and think. They need to be unhindered and unobstructed in doing their most important work.”
—Elizabeth Suzann
3 Guiding Principles of Slow Writing
There are many ways to think about slow writing, but here are a few to get started.
Slow writing is … a reclamation
If you look up the definition of slow, it actually suggests laziness. Something that doesn’t feel inherently positive, really, as though it’s a deficient state of being. There’s a book that came out relatively recently called Ready, Set, Slow by Lee Holden, and there’s a quote that addresses this which says:
“Slowing down doesn’t equate with laziness and sloth; rather it fuels our endeavors in a way that stress never could.”
It’s important that we remind ourselves of this, because while I can know in my bones that I believe creating more slowly doesn’t mean I’m lazy, I’m also conditioned to believe my worth is tied to my productivity, so we’re always butting up against that. In a LitHub essay, Melissa Matthewson speaks to the delight of writing slow, saying “Slow writing is passionate engagement, an intensified focus, a process that nurtures the creative artist.”
Also, from the perspective of the nervous system, slow isn’t a symptom of falling behind—it’s actually the mechanism by which energy and creativity can regenerate. The world may want us to think about this differently, but we don’t actually thrive as humans with near-constant output, we thrive on gentle and predictable rhythms. This reclamation can feel counterintuitive, like if this is the way we choose to live and write, we’re somehow missing out or falling behind. But remember: Slow isn’t passive. It’s highly intentional. You’re consciously pursuing presence and wonder, and cultivating the powers of observation.
Another way to think of reclamation is not just reclaiming the word’s definition but reclaiming our ATTENTION.
I always mention the Mary Oliver line “Pay attention, be astonished, tell about it” as sort of this mandate for the writer, our call to action, and I came across another quote recently by Rae Armantrout that says: “My best advice is the advice they give kids at a crosswalk: stop, look, and listen.” And we really can’t do what either of these quotes ask of us if we’re not tuned in to ourselves, to the world around us. If we’re not putting attention on our writing, on our daily habits, on the quiet moments in-between, we can’t meet ourselves in that creative space. We need to pause. We need buffers. We need to breathe and move our bodies. I feel like this could be an entire episode on its own, but that’s the first idea, slow writing as a reclamation.
Slow writing is … a connection to nature
Because it’s grounded in seasonality, slow writing takes a cue from nature’s rhythms. (If you’re someone with a menstrual cycle, it’s another layer of seasonality there as well.) Looking to nature as a guide can also feel counterintuitive in our culture because it involves periods of wintering, and doing less when the outer world would prefer that you do more. Of course, pacing yourself doesn’t mean you’re doing nothing, but a slow writing practice has space for noticing: noticing the earth, noticing our bodies, tuning in to what we need, recognizing that there are creative seasons that ebb and flow and that it’s completely normal to experience periods that are deeply generative, and others where you feel a bit untethered. It’s all part of that flow.
Slow writing is … pacing yourself
I was first introduced to the concept of pacing through the work of Red School, and the founders talk about pacing, in particular, as a necessity during the transition from your inner winter to your inner spring, or your bleed to your follicular phase. If you emerge from this deeply interior few days and go straight to the energies of the inner summer—what culture often expects—it’s very jarring and disorienting for our system. At the same time, we have hormonal changes happening that often give us a boost in energy and we’re starting to feel more buoyant, but rushing may lead to depletion.
Another example of pacing from the athletic world, for instance, is when you’re running. I used to be a distance runner and we had this contempt of pacing with each other, which is so incredibly practical and I think an excellent metaphor for writing. When you run, pacing is a strategy—you’re managing the speed and effort through the entirety of a race and relying on a lot of endurance so you can finish strong and avoid burnout. It’s something that you both plan for ahead of time, but you also make tactical decisions in the moment based on how the course is feeling, your competition, how you’re doing physically. Translated to writing, think about any long-term project you might be working on. You might have a loose plan guiding you, but you also need to make choices day-to-day based on life circumstances that come up, whether it’s schedules, job demands, or family needs.
Another reminder from the book Ready, Set, Slow by Lee Holden:
“Even with our advances in technology and our modern environment, our bodies are still very primal, operating on the same cycles and rhythms as they have for hundreds of thousands of years. It’s no wonder that balance is so difficult to achieve when we push ourselves in so many unnatural ways.”
We’re literally not built to do so many things at once, or to move so quickly.
Urgency does not communicate safety.
Chronic rushing keeps your nervous system stuck in survival mode, on high alert.
Again, this doesn’t mean we do nothing. Our systems are adaptable and can handle some stress, but I think we need to look at the whole. Take a deep breath before you start working. Take a three minute walk up your street. Slow the whole thing down.
You can even think about the tactile expression of writing here when we’re talking about speed and urgency. It just used to be ink and paper. Computers have made our lives a lot easier in many ways, but they also encourage speed and efficiency, which can sometimes be, not necessarily an enemy of writing, but can pull us into that idea of speed as a dominant way of being. I mean, I typed up this episode on the computer and that’s fine, but I also wrote a haiku in my journal sitting on the porch too.
Writing by hand is a really embodied act, but it’s slower than the tools that dominate our digital lives like laptops and smart phones. Using a keyboard is so easy in some ways, but it trains us to move with efficiency and sometimes we miss the meandering mind that can create important connections. I still plan on writing on a computer but again, slow writing is about bringing awareness to these tools and making sure we’re staying tethered to ourselves and our creative practice in ways that support the innate pace of our nervous systems.
How to Embrace Slow Writing
Most writers I know come to slow writing by way of crisis or circumstance. They’ve burned themselves out, only to realize they can’t go on. Or they have children, only to realize they can’t write as much as they used to, as part of their devotion now lies elsewhere.
Slow writing does require choices to be made, especially around your time. These aren’t easy conversations to have with yourself, or simple realizations to make. And it takes a lot of courage to do things differently. So while it might feel initially like you’re limiting yourself or not able to do all you want to do. It can be super frustrating when you’re making that mental transition, I know I went through that years ago, but that’s the urgency culture talking. The truth is, we were never meant to juggle this much at one time. So we need to unlearn and relearn and practice and show ourselves a lot of compassion along the way.
Choosing slow writing means you resolve to pursue what’s most essential during the season you’re in, to care for your body and mind, and live what I’ve started calling a well-blended life vs. a well-balanced life—because when I think of balance I think of a gymnast on a beam or something that might be this beautiful, perfect equilibrium but ultimately, can’t be upheld permanently. We’re always moving. Our schedules are changing. Our kids are starting new activities. We have trips and commitments and elder care and all kinds of things so assuming our writing life will stay static is one of the quickest ways to find yourself frustrated. So I like the idea of blending—recognizing our work, family, and writing lives are intertwined and planning with that in mind.
It’s true that slow writing might not be the most natural way of being, at least at first. We have to ease into it, and need a community around us that supports us. It should be natural, but we live tethered to our phones and computer screens. News cycles are fast and furious. There are low levels of fear, anxiety, and overwhelm hovering. We have trouble sleeping, or hearing ourselves think. And where is our voice? It’s imperative that we access it, and slow writing can help.
I wasn’t always so evangelical about slow writing, but in 2016, I read a book called Essentialism, which I have a habit of recommending to everyone. I’ve talked about it on podcasts, in my newsletter, and it’s usually part of the answer anytime I’m asked about how I’ve managed to accomplish what I have so far.
I was coming off a year of burnout, mostly due to a difficult job working with people who drained my energy. As a new mother, I rapidly discovered how important it was to conserve what little energy I had so I could use it for my family and occasionally, my writing.
The way of the essentialist can be summed up in three words: “less but better.” The philosophy can weave its way into all aspects of your life—your career, your belongings, your relationships, and as I’ve found, your creativity.
Knowing I’d need a new way forward if I wanted to continue writing without sacrificing my sleep, my sanity, and my family life. (Not to mention my full-time job), something needed to change. So I took a step back and assessed everything I was doing—from freelancing to blogging to book writing to reading —and figured out what was most important in that season.
It was six months before my first book was set to be published. Through a mountain of sticky notes rearranged on my wall for several days, I understood the path I needed to walk down: book promotion. My hope was to write more books, which I realized wouldn’t happen if the first one didn’t sell, so it meant setting aside some other work—mostly freelance opportunities, plus a bloggers’ collective, and some social media platforms.
This slow and steady approach helps you honor the season you’re in. The most essential thing today might not be the most essential a year from now, which is good news as far as I’m concerned, because it means we’ll change and grow at just the right pace.
A Slow Writing Manifesto
Here’s what I believe about slow writing, and the pillars I try to follow in my own life.
01 | The Body Comes First
I once resented needing to choose exercise over writing, but I’ve come to learn that without putting my body first, the words rarely follow. Our body makes all things possible. If you’re staying up late to write and sacrificing sleep, rest. If you have the option to spend an hour in yoga or an hour in front of the computer, stretch. I spend less time writing than ever, but the time I do give is richer and more productive because my body and mind are open.
02 | One Thing at a Time
This mantra is available to anyone, anytime. Stick it on your bathroom mirror, write it in your journal, and repeat it to yourself anytime you start feeling overwhelmed.
03 | Stay the Road
A writing career is long. Cultivating a sustainable writing practice means you can maintain momentum for months and years. It’s not about output, but growth over the long-term.
04 | Comparison is the Enemy of Creativity
Each journey is unique, and while we can always learn from one another, there’s no sense in comparing our circumstances to another writer who, from the outside, appears to have it more together, or who has published more books, or has a more popular blog. We never know the whole story. Like anything worth doing, slow writing is a practice. Some days will feel easy, others will feel frustrating, I can promise you that. But in support of your sanity, slow writing is the way.
On Trust and Tenacity
There’s a passage from Maggie Smith’s latest book, Dear Writer, that speaks to this really well and normalizes a writing life she describes as “slow-going” and “more a trickle than a rush.”
“I’ve said for years that what every writer needs is a combination of tenacity—fierce, bulldog-like tenacity—and patience. The two go hand in hand. Tenacity is stick-to-it-ive-ness: part perseverance, part stubborn persistence, part fortitude, part endurance, part determination, part mettle (I love that word: mettle), and part drive.
Tenacity means sticking with it even when it’s not making you feel good. Even when your ego isn’t surfing a big wonderful wave. Maybe your ego has been pulled under and is being thrashed around.
This is where the patience comes in: You have to keep trying, persisting, without instant gratification. We have to press on even if the conditions are less than ideal, even if we experience pushback, even if we don’t have the time or materials we wish we had, even if it’s taking longer than we expected. Remember that progress is often gradual, incremental, sometimes two steps forward and three steps back.
Writing is slow-going for me, more a trickle than a rush. What usually happens: I revise multiple drafts over months, maybe even years. I move sentences and whole stanzas around. I rethink the order. I change the ending. I change the opening. I change the title. The finished version is very different—sometimes unrecognizable.”
What’s being described in that last section is similar to what I’ve experienced myself, where one day I might move a sentence around and that’s my writing. I might jot down one line. I tinker a lot.
Think about the ways that your writing comes together and benefits from that dipping in and out. I’m sure you’ve had experiences, as I have, where something just pours out of you in a rush. Those are amazing moments and I love them, but that’s not happening all the time usually. It all requires trust.
In some ways, I think that diligence of being slow and mindful, touching our creative practice regularly even if it doesn’t feel like a whole lot, is what actually makes those watershed moments of creative magic possible.
We’ll end with a poem by David Whyte called “Where Many Rivers Meet.” It speaks to the beautiful process of renewal as rivers become oceans, how within this cycle, when it’s allowed to move freely, all is remembered and nothing is forgotten.
Where Many Rivers Meet
All the water below me came from above
All the clouds living in the mountains
gave it to the rivers
who gave it to the sea, which was their dying.
And so I float on cloud become water,
central sea surrounded by white mountains,
the water salt, once fresh,
cloud fall and stream rush, tree root and tide bank
leading to the rivers' mouths
and the mouths of the rivers sing into the sea,
the stories buried in the mountains
give out into the sea
and the sea remembers
and sings back
from the depths
where nothing is forgotten.
