On Patience

Some people are able to write with a prolificacy that leads me to question their humanity. Authors such as Brandon Sanderson and Will Wight consistently churn out multiple novels per year with a quality that’s at minimum workmanlike. I know they have support teams that scurry around like pit crews servicing Formula 1 supercars, but still. I imagine the authorial equivalent of losing eight pounds’ worth of water-weight per race must be brutal, if temporally distributed.

Perhaps I, too, would be capable of such feats if I made it big and could afford to quit my day job. But I doubt it. Even after a decade of regular writing, I still need to take breaks from time to time to refresh my imagination. And yes, it really does make a difference to the quality of my work.

So prolificacy isn’t my goal. That would be depressing. What I aspire to is constancy. A little bit at a time gets the novel written. Let the proverbial tortoise be my guide! I won’t win any races with Hare Sanderson, but in this business just crossing the finish line is all it takes to win. That, I can do.

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