Because I Can Teach: how much

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

—A Course in Miracles, Helen Schucman

If you’re like me, I have a function in me that says “But what have you done for us lately?” I might write a song one day, and then push to write one the next. Honestly, I have been known to push myself to write not one, but four poems in a day. Overwhelmed, I then avoid writing at all for a stretch of time. I created an excuse to not write—it’s too much.

We set limits on our writing, because consistency—whether in sports, in writing, or relationships—is more important than heroics. Without limits, we can be endangered. When I was writing my first major book, The Flexible Writer, a piece that went over 700 pages in manuscript, I so overworked that I lost the use of my hands for two years. To finish the project, I had to hire an assistant to whom I dictated. I couldn’t read a magazine, comb my own hair, or drive—let alone write or play with my nieces and nephew.

Over time, I learned to set not only lower limits—to challenge myself and go deeper than I thought I might; but upper limits, as well. When starting a new project, I assign myself to write for fifteen minutes a day. Fifteen minutes? That’s nothing, right? But fifteen minutes without fail. Every. Day. This stimulates my creative unconscious to work. Or, as I did when I was writing my second novel, I assign myself to write one typewritten page. If, during my initial commitment I’m tempted to write more, I resist. Yes, I resist. I make a couple of notes. Return to it the next day. If this persists, I renegotiate my upper limit. And then write according to my new commitment. Every. Day.

The mind is a wily thing—it is its nature to be always scanning and looking elsewhere—for food, sex, entertainment, danger—more, more, more. I don’t give my mind an out. When I make a commitment, I keep it, despite its lures: You’ve been good. Take off today. You can make up for it tomorrow. No thank you. If I make a promise to myself, I keep it. My creative unconscious—my muse—comes to trust me. And it delivers.

Writing every day means I can’t fudge on the weekends, can’t write double when I miss a day. I don’t fatigue. My journal becomes a very healthy addiction—I can’t go without. It is a refuge, a friend—healing and inspiration.

Instead writing in my journal until I am exhausted and dry—and overwhelm myself with all the inevitable ideas that emerge—I set a limit. I titrate—which means I start out small, get into a rhythm, and then renegotiate. In my Senior Writing Seminar course, I distribute Composition books the first day, and assign a daily page every day. (I will not read these journals, unless a writer wants me to see a particular entry—more on that in another post.) Just as medicines are titrated—increased dosages over a particular length of time—we titrate the number of journal pages, until we get to three. That’s 100 lines in a college-ruled comp. book.

Taking Julia Cameron’s lead in her book The Right to Write, I titrated my daily journal to three pages. In other posts, we will explore the different moods and purposes journaling takes, and what to do when you hit THE WALL.

Set yourself an upper limit for daily journaling. Start out small. And do not do make-up pages for missed days. That's just an invitation to overwhelming, discouraging, and then giving up on yourself. Just write the amount to which you have committed yourself. If you miss a day, start all over the next.

Tell us about your experiences with being overwhelmed because you committed yourself to too much—in whatever area of your life. What happened? Did you give up all together? Did you rebalance? How?

Remember: When you can’t meet your expectations, lower your expectations!