Writer's Life: Running Your Race (Sarah)

In writing circles, I witness frequent discussions on writing speed, daily word count, and the number of books written and released per year. In fact, a few days ago I heard someone who published four books a year call her pace slow…if she is slow, I suppose I’m glacial.

In actuality, I can draft at a decent rate, turning out 1500-2000 words an hour, but I have a relatively minimal amount of time to write, and I also tend to proceed slowly in the editing phase, wanting to layer in detail and nuance and polish words until they shine. Of course, it’s likely that my pace and process will continue to evolve through the years, and I generally find I get faster the more books I write, but that’s where I am now.

And I’ve had to continually remind myself not to compare to other writers. There’s no inherent virtue in cranking out a book a month (nor conversely, to taking a year or ten to write one novel). It’s about cultivating excellence in craft and creativity in your work and finding the pace and methods that fit you as a writer and your particular season of life.

No two people are alike. Our personalities and life circumstances are unique. We each have  responsibilities, values, and challenges that shape how we live our lives. It doesn’t mean we can’t learn, grow, and become more effective in how we carry out our responsibilities and pursue our dreams and desires, but we’re working from different starting points and even with different creative or career goals in mind. 

Right now, I’m in the season of young children (ranging from 20 months to 6 years). While sometimes stories press upon me, demanding release, and I dream of long blocks of focused time to birth them onto the page, in reality, I wouldn’t trade this season with my kids for anything. I’m thankful that I get to pour my time and energy into them by homeschooling and sharing everyday life with them. If I chose another path, such as sending them to school, I would have more time to write—but this is the choice that’s right for me and my family. That means I simply focus on carving out time to write as consistently as I can, working it into the fabric of our family's schedule—and not comparing my output to someone who writes for four, eight, or twelve hours a day.

I love the Scripture that says “and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith.” I’ve found when I do that, I’m not distracted by comparison and can be more joyful and productive. I can learn and glean from others, from their methods along with their successes and failures, but I keep my focus on running the race set before me—not someone else’s race.

What about you? Do you struggle with comparison? If you write, what is your natural writing pace? Has it changed with the changing seasons of life?

Story Snippets: Commencement

Image by mrbudgetphotography from Pixabay 

May and June are a time for graduations. This is a piece of flash fiction I wrote in a near future world not too different from our own. Noah has made an unconventional career choice, and one has to ask, has Noah saved his future or sabotaged it?

 Commencement

Noah swung his leg over the seat of his retrocycle. “Thanks for fixing it. Guess I don’t have to worry about getting caught.”
Honors students weren’t allowed in the vocational hall. Once Liv announced she was training to be a bike mechanic, she was pulled from her academic classes.

Liv put away her tools and wiped the last of the black grime from her hands. “Are you sure about your decision? Headmaster Greid pulled my salutatorian speech. Don’t think he won’t do the same to you.”

Noah rumpled his blue-tipped blond hair. “Tomorrow’s our last day. Nothing to lose.”

“Except your speech. And your future.”

Liv mounted her own retrocycle, and Noah followed her outside. They dodged potholes as vehicles hovered above. Only the poor braved the crumbling roads and sidewalks. Noah glanced over his shoulder at Stream Tech Preparatory Academy. Workers sprayed fresh holopaint over the pockmarked stone facade. Others nailed boards over the front steps. The alternative was razing the historic structure. These crews were filled with the dregs of the global society. Skilled tradesmen capable of making the needed repairs were a dying breed.

Noah and Liv parked their retros in the worker lot of their neighborhood and walked to his house. They avoided Liv’s home. Her career choice was as unwelcome as abandoning purple hair for her natural brown. Noah liked the color. Her image-conscious mother did not.

They passed through the mansion’s gates and detoured through the garage to retrieve his toolbox. Few knew of the private sale that turned his family from owners to tenants. Noah did his part to save them from bankruptcy. Some might even call it a sacrifice.

Noah slipped a hammer through his beltloop and stuffed nails in his pockets. “Liv, hold the ladder.”

He didn’t bother checking for nosy neighbors before climbing up. They would have to get used to a banker’s son swinging a hammer.

Hot and sweaty from an afternoon of making repairs, Noah gulped from the garden hose, and then held it up for Liv who guzzled from the stream.

She wiped the back of her mouth. “Despite Mom’s warning, I still haven’t caught worms doing this.” Liv kissed his cheek. “Meet you at the gate tomorrow. Our last ride before graduation.”

“Yeah.”

Had Noah saved his future or sabotaged it? If only he were as confident about his decision as Liv.

###

Fresh holopaint and metal sheets disguised the rickety stage of Stream Tech Preparatory Academy. Illuminated carpet runners covered the cracked concrete floor. Noah stumbled when his shoe heel caught the edge of a hidden hole. This misstep confirmed his career choice.

Headmaster Greid tugged on Noah’s graduation gown. “When you chose trade school you lost the privilege of giving the valedictory address.”

“I earned that honor.” Noah lifted his valedictorian medal. “Are you confiscating this?”

Mr. Greid mumbled, “if I could.” His voice returned to its normal volume. “As a student leader, you're negatively influencing the student body. Frankly, I’m disappointed in you.”

“You shouldn’t be.” Noah lifted his chin and mounted the stage steps avoiding one with missing tread.

Headmaster Greid took the podium and droned on about Stream Tech Preparatory. As promised, he bypassed Noah and Liv and introduced the student body president.

The headmaster strode toward his seat at the back of the stage. Crack. He stepped through a rotten board and fell face first. In the commotion, Noah took the podium.

“I am the valedictorian but my speech was blocked because I’m a disgrace. Why?” Noah gestured around the auditorium. “Shiny high-tech fabrics and performance paint cover the truth. Our country is crumbling because we don’t have skilled workers. Where are they? Shamed and shoved into a college education. Instead of racking up debt I turned down an education at a prestigious university to apprentice as a carpenter. Some might argue otherwise, but I’m no less valuable to society. Who knows, I may prevent a principal from falling through the floor of his own stage.”