It’s so normal, when we want to commit to new writing habits, to draw up a Dramatic New Plan and throw all our strength behind it. Especially at those new-start times of year: the September energy of a fresh academic year; the 1 January resolutions. You push hard. And then, come November or February, you find the New Plan’s already in tatters and you start berating yourself: Am I just lazy? Not committed? I need to try harder. Be better!
It’s normal. That’s what happens with those Big Pushes. And it doesn’t have to be like that. So take a lesson from punting.
That’s me punting with two of my cousins. A strapping lad of 17 and my ex-army cousin who climbs mountains for fun on the weekends. Punting’s basically pushing the punt along with a pole and they are way stronger than me. They should be shooting ahead. But I can leave them in my wake, punting.They thrust the pole down, push with all their (considerable) might, hurtle the punt forward – diagonally, towards the bank. They hoik the pole back up – into the branches above. They stab it back into the river bed – now the punt’s veering into the brambles, the passengers frantically trying to flatten themselves. So the strong cousins jerk the pole round, biceps bulging to correct – but a punt is a long flat thing, and it carries on turning, so now they’re the ones heading into the brambles. They jam the pole down and push hard: there’s mud at the edges, which has gripped the pole. Punt shoots away, pole stays put, punter falls with an almighty splash in between.
Big Pushes in writing are the same. It’s not that you lack strength, energy, commitment – but if you use it like that, that’s how you end up in the water.
This is how you punt. Hold the pole out the water, vertical, and let it slip through your hands till it reaches the bottom. Gently, steadily, hand over hand, press the pole downwards behind you. You’re building gradual momentum, not trying to go from still to zooming. And if you’ve hit a pebble or rock, so it’s pushing at slightly the wrong angle, you notice, so you can lift and shift the pole before you’ve thrown your full force at it. One pebble doesn’t become a bramble incident. Or if you’ve hit mud, you can feel it, and twist the pole before you’ve jammed it too deep. One patch of clay riverbed doesn’t become a huge splash.
When your hands are down at your sides, don’t yank the pole up for another thrust: keep it in the water behind you, as much of it in the water as possible. Now it’s your rudder. If you pushed off at a slight angle, gently correct: the smallest of changes, because it’ll steadily keep going. Whatever you do keeps happening, so you just do a little, and watch. That ruddering is more important than how you pushed off.
Take a sip of cava as you float under the tree. Put your glass back at your feet. Lift the pole, hand over hand; hold the pole out the water, vertical, and let it slip through your hands… Each time, you refine how straight you push, and each time, you trail your long rudder, minutely correcting. And you glide smoothly, effortlessly, down the river.
And that’s how to turn your writing habits into a smooth effortless glide, too. It might feel like a Big Push will get you places faster, but only into the brambles and the water. Build momentum gradually, not in one Dramatic New Plan. Add to it bit by bit and push gently, observing the effects. Course-correct in small incremental changes, paying as much attention to that as you do to pushing. Pause as the branches float overhead – those tricky times, when any realistic friend would say “Mate, take a break” – knowing it’s safe to stop for a bit and your momentum continues. Refine, little by little, over time. And you’ll glide.
If you want to remake your writing habits like this in the year ahead, the Writers’ Greenhouse Community will help you refine them, course-correct, and steadily build momentum, till it really is that smooth effortless glide. Click here to find out how to join. And if you’re already a member, sign in here to start with your Trellising module and the next Writing Boost.
