Deconstructing and Redefining “Writing Discipline”
By Eleanor Ball
What does it mean to be a “disciplined writer”? Some people might say it means being able to write daily, produce a certain output per month, or focus on one project at a time even when you want to follow those shiny new ideas. A couple of years ago, I completely agreed with this perspective. And as someone who jumps between projects, writes at irregular hours, and doesn’t draft many words per writing session, I thought I was doomed to languish forever in the “undisciplined writers” corner of shame, alongside all the other writers who might have made it if we’d just had the strength of will to wake up and write at 5 a.m. every day for the duration of our adult lives. But as I’ve become more in tune with my writing process over the last year, I’ve developed a new perspective on the idea of discipline. Now, I do consider myself a highly disciplined writer—even though, for example, I only worked on my novel for seven days this July and spent the rest of the month playing in other projects.
…I want to reframe conversations about “writing discipline” from how much we work to how we approach our work.
I believe that, too often, we define discipline by its results (how many words have we written? how much time have we spent writing?) rather than by what it actually is. In general, I define discipline as approaching writing with intention and respect for the work. This involves different things for different people: Discipline for you may mean regularly rotating the projects you’re working on, or it may mean honing in on one project until it’s finished. Maybe your discipline means maintaining a regular writing schedule and a clean space. Or maybe it means that you take the time to be extra conscientious about what writing-related deadlines and events you commit yourself to. But regardless of how discipline structures your writing practices, I believe it’s important to strive for a discipline that’s deeply rooted in flexibility. Focusing on flexibility translates to caring for and respecting ourselves and our work—whether we’re writing horror, fantasy, science fiction, or any other subgenre of speculative fiction. Above all, I want to reframe conversations about “writing discipline” from how much we work to how we approach our work. I don’t value discipline for the sake of discipline itself; rather, I value discipline for what it can bring to the table—such as, for me, a more honed and generative creativity.
With this framework in mind, here are three ways other than output I think about my writing process when it comes to discipline:
Goal-setting & discipline
When I set goals, I (almost) always stick to them. I didn’t always do this—I used to reliably fail my NaNoWriMo goals and never finish manuscripts “on time.” But over the last six months, I’ve gotten light-years better at this. I’ve learned to set goals that work for my creative mind, rather than going off the goals of other writers online. Intentionality and self-knowledge are two important aspects of discipline that I had been leaving by the wayside in my quest to be the most rigorous, highest-output writer ever, matching the pace of those who can draft 10,000 words in a day or write every day for a year.
The process of trying out different approaches to your goals to find out what works best for you, and the necessary stumbles along the way, is valuable and shouldn’t be discounted as “failure.”
I believe that an important form of discipline is intentionally building plans that support you and your projects—and then executing them, with an attitude of adaptability. For example, this is why I don’t consider myself “undisciplined” for taking actually forever to finish my novel: I’ve carefully considered the one-year, two-year, and five-year goals I have for my writing life, and querying is not currently one of them. But one goal I do have right now is learning how to write more forms that I’m less familiar with, such as short stories or visual poetry. This goal works in concert with my creativity far better than focusing only on my novel for six months would, since I love having multiple projects going at once. It’s a goal crafted with intentionality, self-knowledge, and care—which means keeping myself accountable is far easier. The process of trying out different approaches to your goals to find out what works best for you, and the necessary stumbles along the way, is valuable and shouldn’t be discounted as “failure.” The disciplinary skills-building that comes from the practice of setting small goals, working towards them, and learning from the resulting success or failure is often more important in the long-term than the total number of words written at the end.
However, it’s important to keep in mind what discipline isn’t. Discipline does not involve beating up on myself endlessly if I didn’t accomplish something because I had a migraine that day, I felt drained from my day job, or a roommate emergency came up. That’s just poisoning my relationship with my creativity—not crafting an intentional, meaningful writing life. It’s neither discipline nor in service of it. And if August 2024 rolls around and I still can’t craft a compelling short story, the sun will not fall out of the sky.
Revisions & discipline
As writers, we are always asking ourselves, “Is this piece done? Is it time to submit and move on to the next draft, or could I make it even better with a bit more work?” An important form of discipline is having the ability to step away from our work when necessary. Over time, I’ve developed the ability to understand when I’m making my work better versus simply different, as well as when a distanced perspective would prove helpful. Discipline means being able to say, “I could make this 5% better over many hours if I kept working now, but if I took three weeks away and then came back, I could make it 200% better in far fewer hours of work.” Sometimes, discipline means we can admit that we don’t have the answers—and know that not having it all figured out is okay.
Additionally, when we’re getting feedback from beta readers, critique partners, and editors, it can be easy to fall into the trap of thinking that others’ perspectives must contain the “hard truth” about our work. After receiving a negative critique, many writers’ instinct—mine included—is to jump right into revision. However, it’s important not to automatically accept all of the feedback that’s sent our way. Carefully processing what others have said before instinctively implementing it is an important form of discipline. Personally, I find it useful to sort the feedback I receive into different “buckets” based on how it intersects with my vision and execution—for example, some buckets may be “quick fixes,” “other stylistic options,” or “larger-scale, actionable feedback based on a shortcoming in my execution.” If possible, I always talk through the feedback with my editor to make sure we’re on the same page regarding the thematic core and aesthetic vision of the piece; if we’re not, that definitely casts their feedback in a different light! Only after triaging and deep-diving into my feedback in these ways do I start actually making changes to the manuscript.
Sometimes, discipline means we can admit that we don’t have the answers—and know that not having it all figured out is okay.
Burnout & discipline
Finally, we often talk about having the discipline to write through the hard parts of your story, and that is an important aspect of writing, to be sure. However, the often-unacknowledged other side of this coin is that writing discipline can also be about not writing. In the past, I’ve burned myself out by writing even when I didn’t want to, even when everything in me was telling me to stop. However, I thought that a “real” writer—a “serious” writer, a “disciplined” writer—would keep going. Would win NaNoWriMo at all costs. Would finish a manuscript every calendar year. Would use every scrap of free time to churn out new words, even if I knew deep-down I would delete them all later. But the truth is that trying to write through the burnout only made it last longer.
Does what I’m working on really have to get done right now? […] Will finishing it by this deadline provide me with some kind of new skill, or do I just want to finish it so I can say that it’s finished?
Now, however, I have the discipline to pause when I’m beginning to feel spent. I ask myself this series of questions: “Does what I’m working on really have to get done right now? Is this an external deadline, such as one from an editor, or is it a self-imposed deadline? If this deadline is self-imposed, why did I implement it, and what am I gaining by sticking to it? Will finishing by this deadline provide me with some kind of new skill, or do I just want to finish it so I can say that it’s finished?”
Stopping a project, whether temporarily or permanently, isn’t necessarily a sign of failure or a lack of seriousness as a writer. It simply means we have the intentionality and self-discipline to tune out the noise from others and listen instead to our work and ourselves. Much of what I’ve learned over the last couple of years comes down to this: knowing myself as a writer and not being afraid of who she is. When I work with, not against, who I am as a writer, it becomes much easier to write with intention—and follow through on those intentions. To me, that’s the real meaning of discipline.
Eleanor Ball is a queer essayist and speculative fiction writer from Des Moines, Iowa. She is currently studying for her M.A. in Library and Information Science at the University of Iowa, and she serves on the masthead of several magazines dedicated to uplifting marginalized and emerging writers. Find her work in Bullshit Lit, Vagabond City Lit, Write or Die, and elsewhere, or say hi on Twitter @aneleanorball.