A garden of words.
Learning to embrace my unique writing process.
It took me a long time to discover that I am a word gardener.
What do I mean by that? Well, I’m still in the process of figuring it all out, but I have a few ideas.
George R. R. Martin, the creator of A Song of Ice and Fire, famously categorized writers as either architects or gardeners. Simply put, architects like to plan out their stories meticulously before they begin drafting. They like to work from a detailed blueprint. Gardeners, on the other hand, plant seeds of ideas, water them, and then get out of the way, letting the stories take shape on their own terms.
This is basically another way of visualizing the popular planners and pansters dynamic: some writers like to have their stories all planned out in every aspect, while others prefer to write “by the seat of their pants.” There’s no right or wrong way to be a writer, and the creative process is, for many of us, more complicated than the simple planner/architect—pantser/gardener dichotomy would suggest. It’s really more of a spectrum.
For a long time, I’ve considered myself as one of the writers that fall somewhere in the middle. Not fully a planner, but not a dedicated pantser—a plantser, if you will.
But I think that I really identify more with the title of gardener, because I think it’s a richer analogy than simply a preference for writing without an outline. (Actually, I do like to have outlines, but I usually keep them simple. Plot synopses are more my style anyway.)
A gardener knows when to fertilize a growing plant and when it’s best to leave it alone. A gardener is comfortable letting a vegetable patch lie fallow for a season. A gardener knows that some years produce abundant fruit while other years are less bountiful. A gardener knows to treat a petunia differently than a tomato plant and a lemon tree differently than a climbing hibiscus. Dead branches need to be pruned. Weeds need to be cleared out. Seeds germinate in their own times and in their own ways.
All this horticultural wisdom can be applied to the writing process, or at least my writing process, and perhaps to yours. I’ve discovered that I cause myself a lot of unnecessary anxiety by trying to “keep pace” with my writer-peers. I often lament that I am such a “slow writer” and that my output is not as prolific as I would like.
When I look at things from this “production”-based mindset, I tend to measure success based on the number of essays, stories, or books I’ve published over a given period. My Inner Critic usually takes over at this point with such gems as:
What do you have to show for all your hard work?
If you can’t manage to keep pace, then you obviously talented enough to be an author.
You should give up on this whole writing fiasco and get a real job.
You’re such a disappointment.
I’ll bet you can see right away how the Critic’s “advice” is obviously irrational and self-defeating nonsense, born of insecurity. But when I’m feeling frustrated, when I’m trying to rush a writing project that I feel pressured to finish as soon as possible, I forget one of the cardinal “Do Not’s” of writing: Do not compare yourself to other authors.
The answer is, of course, to ignore the Critic and to be grateful for my own unique writing journey. I’ve seen success in the past and I will in the future. Caving to self-imposed pressure isn’t healthy for my writing or for me.
As I was wrestling with all these ideas,
shared some thoughts on Substack Notes that spoke exactly to the kind of struggle I’ve been going through:The guilt and shame that manifest in the pressure we feel to “produce content” as quickly and prolifically as possible comes from the Inner Critic. It can drive us to work ourselves into burnout! I’m still learning to recognize this insidious form of self-sabotage when it effects my own creative life. It’s like a weed that can spread and choke the life out of your writing garden. It needs to be ripped out as soon as its found.
And to use another gardening metaphor (I promise this is the last one) it’s perfectly natural to let a field lie fallow in order to reap a richer harvest later. It’s okay to say “Not yet.”
So, how am I implementing these insights in practical ways? Well, for starters, I’m giving myself the grace to say “Not yet” to certain projects. If a particular story or book meant to be in the world, I will come back to it eventually. And when I do, I will be creatively and spiritually rejuvenated by the rest.
In the spirit of a true gardener, I’m also allowing some stories to germinate and grow at their own pace. (Oops! Another garden metaphor. Okay, that’s the last one—for real, this time.) The way I write may be naturally “slow.” (I’m still struggling to find a better word to describe it.) I like to take a lot of notes. I like to allow ideas to come to me when the time is right. I find that my best essays and stories develop from a long period of tending, pruning, and watering. (Aargh! More pesky metaphors—Sorry!!) It’s my own personal creative process and I should embrace it rather than fight against it.
See you in the garden of words!
I’ll bet that after reading this essay you think I’m an expert green thumb? Truth be told, I know next to nothing about proper plant care. Despite working my way through college at a garden center, I never really picked up a keen interest in gardening myself.
But perhaps I ought to try it sometime. . .
If you’ve just discovered my little corner of Substack, I want to invite you to subscribe and to share this post with someone, perhaps a fellow writer (or maybe a gardener—haha), who might be interested. This newsletter only exists with the support and interest of my readers.
Was this post helpful? Are you a fellow gardener of words? Perhaps you’re more of an architect? How do you deal with the Inner Critic? Let me know by leaving a comment. I love getting feedback from my readers.
In the meantime, God bless. Happy reading and happy writing.
Well done, Thomas! I can really get a sense of your comfort now, and your pieces are so much easier to read.
Thanks for the kind mention!