The Kind Writer's Day
On finding what your writerly self most needs
In April this year, I began writing my novel in earnest. I’d curl up on the sofa with my laptop balanced on my knees. It felt perfect: candle lit, soft blanket, tea beside me, woodburner flickering over the logs. The archetypal writer’s nest. It felt kind and nurturing – I could stay there for hours, vanishing into the story.
What I didn’t realise was that I was also vanishing from my body.
There was so much story to get onto the page. I wrote all day, every day. I let my tea go cold, found my water bottle full at the end of the day, dashed down to eat, and dashed straight back again. It’s how I managed to complete three full drafts and 109,000 words in under six months. The thing is, when I’m writing, I’m unaware of anything else. In winter I find myself typing in the dark, not realising it was time to turn the lights on an hour ago.
On reflection, from April onwards, I walked less, moved less, and a virus I thought I’d shaken off seemed to drag on and on. In the months that followed, that pattern continued. I didn’t notice that my posture was folding in on itself, or that the small aches were early whispers. Writing carried me – until it didn’t.
Now, months later, I’m living with a hip that wakes me at night and a shoulder that makes me go “Ouch!” when I reach for something. I feel stiff and achy, and I’ve had to really look at what’s going on. I have a good chair and desk, but they aren’t aligned properly for me. My Whoop tracker told me this morning that my gentle forty-minute walk was an 8.7 “strain.” The strain wasn’t the walking; it’s being in this body that no longer feels like mine.
When pain is new, the mind jumps to dark places. I heard recently about a friend of my daughter’s who had backache that turned out to be something far worse. Those stories scare me. But when I look at my own patterns, I think it’s clear what’s happened: months of stillness, imbalance, and assuming my mind could do the work while my body waited patiently.
It couldn’t.
And it’s letting me know.
My physio has designed exercises for an impinged shoulder and trochanteric something-or-other in my hip. He says it will take six months or so to recover. I’m going to rejoin the gym on Monday.
This morning, after my walk, I decided to meditate properly again. Not slouched on the sofa, legs out, with a blanket – but on my wooden meditation stool, the one I’d stopped using because I’d heard an online teacher say comfort was all that mattered. Sitting on that stool felt like an act of respect; an apology to my body. I kept it short – ten minutes. My back aligned. My breath slowed. I remembered what balance felt like.
This afternoon, I made an autumn wreath for the front door – the first small act in what I hope will be a new rhythm. It reminded me that creativity needs to live off the page too. That the cutting, the arranging, the making – they’re part of the same creative flow.
I’m not qualified to offer any advice here - I’m just sharing what’s happened to me and what I’m going to do next.
I’m going to take a less-is-more approach to my writing, and know that moving my body is just as important – in fact, it is part of the writing if I want a sustainable practice.
I’m calling it my Kind Writer’s Day: a rhythm that includes walking, stretching, writing in shorter bursts, making soup, creating, writing letters, talking to friends. And days off.
Living the writing life, in other words – not writing until I drop. If you’d like to follow my progress, I’m collating my posts in My Novel Year.
Maybe this is what mid-life creativity looks like: not racing toward an imagined finish line, but learning to write in alignment — spine, story, and soul.
I’d love to know how you sustain your writing hours - body, mind or spirit. What helps you stay kind to yourself through the long drafts? I’m gathering ideas as writing through pain isn’t much fun!
And in case you’re new here: alongside writing novels, I’m also a somatic life coach. I help people reconnect with their bodies, creativity, and sense of possibility – the same things I’ve been leaning on while shaping this book. You can find out more about my work HERE.
The novel I’m working on is a dual-timeline story inspired by an inscription on a weathered grave in the churchyard behind my house. That single line on stone has grown into a whole world — Victorian Suffolk and present-day teens, linked by memory, loss, and courage.
It’s so easy to get caught up in the writing and forget ourselves, isn’t it. Looks like you’re finding the balance. Lovely post. Thanks for sharing.