Writing and Deadlines

Back in the winter of 2012 and 2013, I was living in Iceland with my then girlfriend and watched as the days grew darker, eventually culminating (around the solstice) with about 23 hours of pitch-black night—a twilight-glow lunch hour the only time we caught a hint of the sun, halfheartedly peeping up over the horizon.

I romanticize that winter in part because I love Iceland and its windy, oft-chilly climate (the country’s “gluggaveður,” or “window weather” that time of the year persistently chills cheeks and rattles rooftops), but also because my partner and I had a nice little routine that was remarkably conducive to my writing practice.

She ran a restaurant, and as such was gone much of the day. We would spend time together mornings and evenings, but in between we were both living in our own, meandering worlds.

During those sprawled, skyless, solitary hours I would make a cup of coffee, sit down and write for a spell, then don my many layers of clothing for a walk through the cold, icy neighborhood.

The internet worked pretty well, which was great for research purposes, but the time-zone shift was just significant enough that real-time communication with loved ones was inconvenient for everyone involved. So my pace of life and writing were set primarily by where I decided to eat my meals, when the kick of my mugfuls of coffee hit me, and whether (or not) I had found a groove in my current project.

Those days were sunless, but they were of course exactly as long as any other day I’ve ever lived.

But because of how blurry my connections to the rest of the world (and to the also bundled-up, hygge-optimizing locals I would catch glimpses of, through the gloom and snowfall, on my walks) were during this period, my time felt liberated in a way I hadn’t experienced before.

Deadlines are useful, and some of us lean on them heavily if we want to get anything done (especially at a reasonable pace).

That said, I think we can lose something in our work (and lives) if we become fixated on the idea of finishing a project at the expense of the writing (and act of writing), itself.

I write for a living, so deadlines are a big part of how I’m able to pay the bills. They’re also key to how I’ve managed to get better at my craft, over time.

But to this day, I try to keep a chunk of each week as listless and meandering and unconstrained as I dare.

The hard limits of practical reality are bones upon which we can build a reliable, consistently improving practice (and, if that’s your goal, career).

But the amorphous wobbliness of unassigned time can be valuable when we allow ourselves to really lean into and enjoy its cozy embrace.