It’s hard to describe to non-creators how difficult it is to be abstract when you’re in pain, or when you’re exhausted, or when illness or drugs or mental illness has washed you up on a strange chemical shore. All art requires an element of abstraction, of big picture thinking, because art at its heart is simply the act of imposing artificial structure upon the world. With writing, you don’t even have the concrete sensory anchor of paint or clay or bricks. You have only words, in themselves already art, some past human’s clumsy attempt to translate a concept to a vocalization.
When you’re an animal under duress, the big picture feels very unimportant.
I’ve talked a little bit about my health struggles over the past 18 or so months, the implosion of my immune system, the shrinking diet, the fatigue, the failure of my adrenals, the discovery that hookworms were living in my fucking face. It was all pretty impossible. The part that made it the most impossible? The brain fog. Brain fog’s pretty common with all sorts of inflammation, and before I figured out that a huge part of my problem was that I had face-friends, I was pretty much always locked in brain fog. Some days it was just confusion. Light inability to finish sentences predicted from 3-6 pm, bring an umbrella. Other days, I couldn’t remember my home address.
The problem was I had a book due. So I threw myself against it, because that’s how I had always approached life. Screw you, brain fog, illness, allergic reaction, I’m just going to push through.
I would get up every morning and begin working on ALL THE CROOKED SAINTS. One labored word after another. I would sit at the computer for 12 hours to accomplish a paragraph. The next day, if the fog had cleared a little, I would ditch all of the repeated words and the sentences that led to nothing. Most days that was everything. Some days I got to keep a few sentences. On good days, I tried to use my brain to solve big picture problems and get enough of it down that my fogged brain the next day wouldn’t mess it up too much. Then I would get up the next day and I would do all this again. 12 hours. 1 paragraph. I would do it again the next day. The next day.
I used to write rough drafts in four months in four hours of writing every other day. With Saints, I wrote for 12 hours a day for an entire year. Quite literally I did nothing else — everything else fell apart and away. I muscled through. If I couldn’t understand words, I sat there and I typed nonsense until I could. I read it aloud until the words sounded familiar. I leaned heavily on every beta reader and critique partner — tell me when I start to make a book, friends, please, tell me when I’ve gotten into the weeds. Finally I managed to turn it in.
People say that book doesn’t sound quite like my others — no, it wouldn’t. I fought wars for that book. They say it sounds more precise, more poetic, more deliberate. Yes, it would. Every word was stolen, snatched, cobbled, carefully assembled. I can reread any of my other books, but not that one. I open it to a random page and I can only remember the weeks it took to accomplish each of them.
I’m telling you all this because I was wrong.
Back in early spring of this year, after I’d gotten the hookworms out of my face but while I was still dealing very intensely with all the physical damage left behind, a very wise woman gave me a piece of advice. She told me to start a journal. In the morning, she said, write down the percentage that I felt I was that day. 20% Maggie. 90% Maggie. Then I should write down what I accomplished that day.
I thought at this point she was going to tell me to admire how much I’d gotten done each day despite being ill. I didn’t want that; I didn’t need a pep talk. I needed my brain.
But that wasn’t what she said. She told me: write down what you’ve managed to do on a 20% day, what you’ve managed to do on a 40% day. Eventually you’ll have a guide so when you wake up and you’re at 20%, you won’t try to do the things you do on a 40% day. You’ll know you can just go watch a movie or sit with your goats or whatever and not feel guilty, because you were never going to write words you could keep or be able to exercise or whatever.
And that was the right way.
It meant I no longer labored for 12 hours each day, doing nothing but trying to smash my way through a draft. Instead I slowly began to write bits and bobs in on my good days. A funny thing happened then: once I was not spending every second forcing myself to do things I couldn’t, I found I had enough energy to actually start to work on myself. To look for patterns in my good and bad days. To research healthcare providers and new studies on what was wrong with me still. Slowly I found I was able to chain more of the 60% days together, then 80% days. Slowly I began to realize that although it was taking months, I was improving overall.
I threw out every labored word I had written on my current book and I began again with ferocious and structured joy. It took me only a few weeks to completely regain the wordcount of that draft I forced, only this book was free and easy and ridiculous and batshit and I loved it.
I still have 20% days. Really, seriously, don’t let hookworms in your face, especially if you already have an underlying condition. I don’t know when I’ll actually be completely better. But I do know that on those 20% days, I don’t have to make things. It’s ok. I can spend those days enjoying whatever I can. Consuming art instead of making it. That’s enough. That’s right.
I’m very proud of Saints, both how it turned out and what it took from me. But I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. There’s a better way.
Good luck,
urs,
Stiefvater
I’ve had serious brain fog all week, and trying to complete my script that’s due tomorrow for work has felt like fighting an undertow when you can’t pull your head above the waves for even a single breath.
Thank you so much for sharing this. It feels so good to know that I’m not alone, and that one of my favorite writers struggles with this too. It doesn’t mean I can’t be a successful writer. I just have to learn to be work with myself instead of against myself.
Thank you thank you thank you, and I hope for more 90%+ days for you soon.
queerlybeloveds 