“Waiting for the muse” is how many of us start our writing lives. We wait for inspiration to strike, then rush to the page. At that stage, the idea of planning to write feels workaday, even distasteful, a betrayal of an enraptured state.
I believed in this approach, sincerely, for years. It just doesn’t really work. Stories peter out. Novels inch along so slowly that we’ve outgrown them before they’re halfway through. Poems are rare as hen’s teeth. And as adult responsibilities build up around us, it gets even less viable.
I thought it was impossible to write at set times. It’s not: it’s hugely inspiring. I thought it was unromantic to have set writing time. But I found a new romance: writing time is the Garden of Eden. And like the Garden of Eden, it needs an angel with a flaming sword to protect it.
The truth is, writing will never be urgent – not unless you get a two-book deal, and you have to put in a lot of non-urgent time to get to that point. Meanwhile, the rest of life is clamouring with urgency. So it’s up to us, and only us, to prioritise our writing.
This isn’t about “should”s and all those ghastly shouldn’t-you-be-writing memes. Writing is play, a joy, a delight. We do it because we want to. I believe in never setting plans or goals based on “should”s: drill down from the “should” to find the “want to” within it. If you can’t find any want-to at all, is it even worth keeping that plan? If you do want to, then like a relationship, you can commit to it and set clear boundaries for that commitment. Because you want to.
And the best commitment you can make for your writing is writing time: to set, protect, and use the time.
Setting the Time
Setting the time means calendar time. Block the time off in your calendar; talk about it as a fixed calendar plan: “I’m writing on Thursday evening.” When the time is, and how much time, is completely up to you. Some people work well in small sips: one of my students catches the bus to work half an hour early and writes in a coffee shop opposite. Some people (me included) can’t concentrate with other tasks rapidly approaching and need a swathe of time: the whole of a weekend morning, or all the time from finishing work until bedtime on Tuesdays. Some work best early in the morning, while the world’s asleep. Some (like me) are stupid blinking owls in the morning, but can write on into the evening. Some people like to write every day; some don’t. Set the time that works for you.
Once you’ve set the time, keep checking in with yourself regularly, to see what’s working and what’s not. If it’s not working, don’t just blame yourself: dig into why it’s not working and see how to fix that. If you’re too lonely to lock yourself away that evening, then your writing time needs to be when you’re already socially topped-up. If dinner prep stole two hours of writing time, then look up some quicker or batch-cooking recipes. If you felt despondent and uninspired because you had PMT, consider writing around your cycle. If you were too overstimulated to settle into it, think about ways to soothe yourself, like spending time near water.
And if all the adjustments still fall short, check if your plan is realistic and fair. For ages, I tried to write two evenings a week, and consistently only managed three evenings a fortnight. Eventually, I deduced that with the best will in the world, that was how much I could actually fit in, so I changed the plan: three evenings a fortnight.
As I explained in Writing Habits Are Like Punting, it’s about gentle continuous course correction, not Big Pushes. Bit by bit, tweak and adjust when, how often, and how much time works for you. To start, I suggest you check in with yourself weekly. Take five minutes to look at what worked, what didn’t, and what you can tweak.
When you have your writing time, the rest of the time is not writing time. This is equally transformative. So many of us live in a constant fog of “I should probably be writing” guilt, which in turn sours our relationship with writing. Deciding when we’re not writing means we get to look forward to writing and enjoy all the rest of life in the other time. No more guilt.
Protecting the Time
Once you set the time, everything comes rushing in to try and steal that time. It’s like blood in the water for time-hungry sharks: chores, work over-running, interruptions, tiredness, overstimulation, even very lovely people and people you dearly love.
That’s why you need to protect the time like an angel with a flaming sword. As Lucifer says in the TV show, “the Flaming Sword, the weapon that guarded Eden, the weapon that can cut through anything, even the Gates of Heaven itself,” – yes, that sword. Or to continue the Lucifer metaphors (I’m watching it for the first time and just love it), like the scene where Amenadiel has to block the hospital door to save Lucifer’s life, and remain completely immoveable no matter what. We’re writers; we’re storytellers. Go mythic with your metaphors; go Gandalf “You shall not pass”; whatever works for you. Remember what I said at the start: writing time will never be urgent. It’s up to us to protect it.
Keep checking in with yourself, reflecting, and adjusting. Keep looking for practical solutions. Did work overrun? Well, if your writing time is earlier in the week, work doesn’t have a chance to overrun yet. Did people interrupt you? Maybe you can write somewhere they’re not. The more you practise protecting the time, the better you get at it.
Using the Time
My complete saying is, “Protect your writing time like an angel with a flaming sword and within the time be free.” Once you’re inside the writing time, there’s no clock-watching, list-ticking, word-counting. I think of it as a clock without hands: the time is contained and protected; inside, it’s timeless. You are under no pressure to use the time as productively as possible or to be efficient. Writing doesn’t respond well to those, anyway. The measure of good writing time is time spent writing.
Time spent writing doesn’t even have to mean you produced new words: heaps of valuable writing activities make no difference to our word counts. If there are writing-things you need to do “before you can write”, like research, brainstorming, plot musing, character invention, etc, do those in your writing time. They’re part of the writing. So long as you’re protecting the time from all non-writing things, you can use it for any writing-y thing at all.
To make it easier to use the time, and to stay inside the writing time, think about your writing space and sensory cues.
Your writing space
Lots of people find it easier to write away from home, especially if they’re responsible for the bulk of chores and mental load of home. Plus being away from home means that you stay in writing-space even when your concentration span lapses and you need a break. See what your area has to offer: cafés, pub gardens, community spaces, libraries (if you’re in Oxford, we have lots of libraries available), etc. In good weather, you can write outdoors in parks and meadows.
If you’re writing at home, set up your writing space so it works well for you. Maybe it needs tidying and decluttering, maybe nicer lighting. If it’s the same space as you work at, how can you change it up? (In my twenties, when I worked from home and home was a single room, I switched on fairy lights, lit a candle, and sat on the opposite side of the desk, for writing time.) The same way you’d make an effort with the space to delight someone you fancy, for a date, make it special for your writing. And part of that is..
Sensory cues
Sensory cues make it so much easier to slip into writing headspace, and into flow. A writing playlist. A candle that smells of freshly-cut grass. A mug of Lapsang Souchong, which you only ever drink when you’re writing. An age-soft sarong thrown over the table. The side-lamp and the fairy lights instead of the big light. Think about sounds, scents, textures, lighting.
Whatever sensory cues work for you and your space, use them whenever you’re writing, and only when you’re writing. As the association builds, they become more and more effective as a shortcut into your writing state of mind. I’ve been using that writing playlist since 2020, never playing it unless I’m writing or rereading my writing, and at this point it activates me like I’m a sleeper cell. Music on: Megan writes. Choose your sensory cues and let them develop with time.
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Writing time is your Garden of Eden and you’re the angel with a flaming sword. You’re not on your own with this, though – the obstacles, the need for practical strategies, the delight.
If you’d like help setting, protecting, and using the time, join one of the Writing Time Growth Weeks this July: the first one starts on Tuesday 7 July. It’s free for Writers’ Greenhouse Community members (just make sure you opt in) or you can sign up for £12. To opt in or sign up, click here.
And if you’re struggling to find the joy in writing, if you feel cast out of your Eden, the Past Writers’ Block workshop in Oxford on 15 August will help you get back your original freedom and delight.
Happy writing!
