Written by Chelene Knight

What is it about the approaching new year that makes writers either feel a sense of accomplishment on the horizon or a deep-seated desire to set huge (sometimes unrealistic) writing goals? When I think about writing my books in a way that honours who I am and what I value, I can’t help but listen to my own desire to push back against the societal pressure to hurry up and produce something just to push it out into the marketplace. Looking at my track record—I launched book five, Safekeeping: A Writer’s Guided Journal for Launching a Book with Love, exactly one year after my fourth—you might think I’ve fallen for this unwieldy narrative. My consistent production stems from two core beliefs: 1) writer’s block doesn’t exist, at least not in the way we’ve been led to believe, and 2) slowing down is essential for the creative process especially in today’s world.

How can we be clear about our projects, how we want to shape them, and how we want to launch them if we rush ourselves?

Writer’s block, in my opinion, is an excuse we lean on when we resist slowing down to assess what we really need. This concept of "block" often only applies to the drafting phase of writing. But drafting is just one part of the process. When we’re not actively drafting, we’re inside unstructured play or conceptualization, and even revision. For me, unstructured play often starts with getting out my big blank sketchbook and mindmapping my thoughts. Then there are all the things we have to do on a daily basis like errands, caregiving, working the day job—isn’t this writing then, too? It depends on what we pay attention to when we are doing these tasks, and on the narratives we tell ourselves. Yet we don’t value these moments enough to call them what they are: integral parts of creativity. Instead, we lean on writer’s block as permission to stop.

It’s important to have sustainable writing (and drafting) goals, but this means building a creative process that aligns with our unique lives and energy, and being committed to refining over and over as we grow. That’s what we can manage and change. Unfortunately, the pressure to take the express train is everywhere. When I see workshops like “Write Your Novel in a Week” or “Boost Your Word Count,” I feel a deep sadness crawl through my gut. What experiences are we missing out on when we speed past the nuances of the creative process? I know many writers feel the pressure to hurry, to fear there’s an expiry date on their project. The industry often values the end product more than the process—an understandable business priority—but what if we began valuing both? And what if writing became more than walking away with a book at the end? Writing is a tool and also a part of how we move in the world.

When I started as a writer, I was a sponge, soaking up everything my peers incorporated into their processes and creative lives: writing late into the night, doing free work in the name of “exposure.” But no one told me these activities might not work for everyone, or that we could revise these processes to suit. And as writers, aren’t we supposed to be good at revision? Aren’t we supposed to crave it? Alter it, make it work for you.

By the time I finished promoting my second book, Dear Current Occupant, I was exhausted, not because I was doing too much, but because I wasn’t doing enough of what gave me joy and energy. I wasn’t amplifying the parts of me that allowed me to show up as my best self. Heck, I didn’t even know what those parts were because I didn’t prioritize the time to find out. That’s slow intentional work. I wasn’t saying no to tasks misaligned with what I wanted for my books or my career. And we can start small; it doesn’t have to be overwhelming. Looking back, I could have made small tweaks and seen big rewards. For instance, I learned that solo readings drained me more than in-depth panel discussions. I found that moderating small group discussions (1–3 other writers) worked better for me than panels of 5 or more authors, and I paused intentionally when invited on panels that focused on highlighting trauma rather than celebrating craft, creativity, or personal growth. I get to decide where I show up and what I talk about, but speaking these truths is hard for so many.

Making different choices based on this awareness could have spared me one of the scariest burnouts of my life. It’s not about absolutes—do this, don’t do that. It’s about making space for care and energy replenishment when tackling tasks that take more than they give. This process looks different for everyone. The more I learned about myself, the more well-designed my creative life became, and the more I started valuing my time and energy. My focus on designing an ecosystem that included my everyday life took the place of building a platform based solely on numbers.

Contributing to a new cohort of creatives who make aligned decisions about their creative ecosystems, navigate unique challenges, and manage stress should be an industry-wide goal, so that we can indeed shift the way society views working artists. It’s certainly mine, so I’ve built an entire ecosystem, rooted in mindfulness-based stress reduction, around it. If we want authors to sustain long-term careers, the positive impact on the quality of their work becomes undeniable. This is urgent, necessary work. We have to start valuing all the invisible phases of writing, including all the scaffolding that we erect, only to remove once the narrative can stand on its own.

I felt deeply validated when a writer friend forwarded me a Jane Friedman newsletter where she wrote: “The longer I’m in the business, the more I find that writers’ ability to deal with psychological pitfalls, year after year, can become more important than raw talent or skill. Because it’s how you respond to these demons that plays a role in how you grow your skills and put to work the talent you do have.”

So, how do we write and create—and keep creating?

As someone who’s worked closely with writers for over 10 years, I’ve built trust. We need space for people who specialize in mindset, mindfulness, and mental health support for creatives. Writers aren’t “overly emotional”—we’re human. Investing in our emotional, mental, and psychological well-being will create a healthier, more resilient cohort of creatives, especially authors. I’ve seen firsthand how transformative this work can be. Writers tell me daily how their lives have changed because they’re now making intentional, aligned decisions for their creative lives and that it feels good. They feel like they want to write more books because they recognize they do have control over the decisions they make and, essentially, how they feel.

Looking in the mirror, saying no, saying yes, putting ourselves out there—it’s hard when we’re not sure what we want.

Reflection is integral to my life. I keep separate notebooks for workshops and events, money mindset, health, goals, and success. Why? Because tracking what’s changed and what’s stayed the same provides valuable data. The key is to look back without being hijacked by the past and that’s where curiosity plays a role.

We must give ourselves permission to slow down, take the longer route, and face the things that terrify us. This is definitely my focus for the new year and I hope to be as vocal about it as I can. In slowing down, we gain the time and space to interpret the ever-changing world we feel so compelled to write about.

Learn more about Safekeeping: A Writer's Guided Journal for Launching a Book with Love

CHELENE KNIGHT  is the author of Let It Go, Braided Skin, and the memoir Dear Current Occupant, winner of the 2018 Vancouver Book Award and longlisted for the George Ryga Award for Social Awareness in Literature. Her novel, Junie, won the 2023 Vancouver Book Award, was longlisted for the inaugural Carol Shields Prize for Fiction, and was a finalist for the Ferro-Grumley Award for LGBTQ fiction. Chelene is the founder of Breathing Space Creative, home to the Thrive Coaching Program.