Post #1: Writing Discipline, Reimagined
Reviewing the year and choosing a quieter way forward
Writing discipline used to mean output to me.
I used to measure progress in word counts. Pages written. Chapters finished. Tangible proof that something—anything—was happening. If I wasn’t producing, I wasn’t progressing.
But the past year of writing and editing my fantasy novel (and yes, I’m still editing) taught me something different: that creation has its own seasons. Some loud and fruitful, others quiet and uncertain. And both matter.
There were months when I didn’t write a single new scene, yet somehow learned more about the story than I ever did during the thousand-word days. I began to understand that waiting wasn’t failure—it was part of the rhythm. The story wasn’t silent; it was simmering.
When I finally sat back down to write, it felt less like picking up where I’d left off and more like returning to an old friend I finally understood.
This realization changed how I look not just at progress, but at writing discipline itself.
Discipline vs. Devotion in the Writing Life
Every January, I used to make the same list:
Write every day.
Finish the next draft.
Organize my notes.
Drink more water.
Exercise more.
Become a better writer-slash-human who never procrastinates, doubts, or eats cookies over the keyboard.
By February, the list was usually buried under drafts and snack crumbs, and I’d be left wondering why resolutions never seemed to stick.
I thought it was a writing discipline problem. That if I tried harder, structured better, forced myself into creative submission, I’d finally become the version of me who writes with unshakable focus and immaculate posture.
Spoiler: that person doesn’t exist.
What does exist is devotion.
Because writing discipline, I’ve learned, isn’t about control—it’s about care. It’s not punishment; it’s presence. It’s showing up not because you’re supposed to, but because you want to honour what you’ve been entrusted with.
Writing isn’t an obligation. It’s a devotion.
The kind that asks for patience, not pressure. The kind that forgives missed days and celebrates small ones. The kind that understands that silence is sometimes part of the work.
Some days, devotion looks like flow and brilliance and sentences that feel almost holy.
Other days, it looks like half a paragraph and the dignity of not deleting it.
When Silence Is Part of the Creative Process
And sometimes, it looks like staring at the page in silence, trusting that stillness means something is growing.
There were days this past year when I raged at the blinking cursor. Days when I muttered unprintable things… what the f**k am I doing… who the f**k will read this sh*t… why can’t I think straight… about plot arcs and pacing. Days when I considered throwing the manuscript into the compost pile and taking up beekeeping.
And then a good friend would remind me – and I quote, “You’d terrify the bees, darling.”
But even those days had purpose. They taught patience. Humility. The quiet courage to keep returning—to the draft, to myself, to the wonder underneath the frustration.
When I look back now, I don’t see a linear path. I see constellations: each pause, each effort, each doubt, each breakthrough—connected, forming something I couldn’t recognize up close.
Art isn’t a ladder you climb.
It’s a landscape you wander.
Sometimes you sprint across it. Sometimes you sit in the grass and breathe. I truly believe both are progress.
A Different Kind of Writing Resolution
So this year, I’m choosing a different kind of resolution. Not one measured in word counts or writing streaks, but one grounded in ritual and reverence.
Here’s what writing discipline (and devotion) looks like now:
Light a candle before writing. Set the scene.
Take notes by hand once a week, even if they’re nonsense.
Reread something that made me fall in love with language. I love a lot of books, but a couple that spark something in me are “If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler” by Calvino, and “The Waves” by Woolf.
Rest when the story goes quiet—and trust that silence is meaningful.
Celebrate every page that feels alive.
No calendars. No guilt. No chasing.
Just show up again and again, as an act of faith in the process.
Because I’ve found what makes creative resolutions stick isn’t rigidity—it’s reverence.
Writing Discipline as devotion.
Work as worship.
Story as prayer.
And the same good friend adds, “And editing, dear. Even devotion benefits from a good red pen.” Isn’t she a clever one.
This is the beginning of Plot Holes & Progress — a quiet record of the work behind the work.
With ink-stained intentions, and reverence for the return.
