Beatha Coaching

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In November I wrote everyday on substack. November is NanNoWriMo – the national, now international, novel writing month where authors, aspiring and established, encourage one another to write the first draft of a 50,000 word book in 30 days. The concept of getting as many words on the page as possible has always filled me with dread, in part because I have historically been a slow and careful writer – I was never the PhD student worried about overshooting my word limit, quite the contrary – and in part because working with academic research is not a practice that lends itself to writing 50,000 words in a month. The only parts of my thesis that ever poured from my pen were the sections of analysis that could be entirely in my own words and based on my observations. Anything that needs to include references from multiple sources, which is most academic writing, is not going to be a fast process.

However, I was also very aware, through writing this blog, that my writing capacity had increased. And that I wasn’t using that capacity in any directed way. I had always intended to come back to research and to writing seriously. I gave myself my first year in practice to let research go and to focus on building a business, completing my CBT training, and recovering physically and emotionally from academia. Toward the end of those twelve months I started to feel twitchy. My desire to write was coming back, my interest in research returning, I was noticing feelings of jealousy and a rush of adrenaline when discussing my clients’ own work with them.

The question was how to pick up writing again. I had a lot of unfinished pieces on Chinese memory politics on my desk, including an outline for a book based on my last special subject course. But I wasn’t sure if that was what I wanted to be working on – whenever I tried to engage with that work again I felt flat, detached, and resistant. Trying to go back to my former academic work without the demands of an academic career was blocking me not enabling me. I was also struggling to identify where to write, and for whom. The pathway to academic publishing is very clear – peer reviewed journals, a horrendous slog to get anything published, and then an unpaid monograph with a university press that no-one can afford but which gets you job interviews. Well – I don’t want to write behind a paywall, and I’m not interested in applying for academic posts. But without that pipeline to publication, what did I actually mean when I said I was writing?

I decided to use NanNoWriMo as my own little writing experiment – 30 days of writing every day for a few faithful subscribers, with a minimum of 100 words a day. Consistency over content, persistence over productivity. I have been astonished by how quickly I fell into a writing rhythm, and the ways in which writing every day has changed where I was at the start of November to now. Here are the key lessons I learned:

1. Small goals are sustainable – by setting the bar seriously low for myself, I ensured there were minimal obstacles to my writing. Procrastination and anxious avoidance are often fuelled by over-estimation of a challenge and under-estimation of our capacity to meet it. 100 words was achievable no matter what, especially if I took away any requirements of form – I actually wrote the instructions for a yoga flow for one post.
2. Less is more – The only post that came in at below 100 words (97 words to be exact) turned out to be my favourite of the whole month. It marked a turning point for me, when I sat down and quickly poured out a thought I had been having about trauma whilst listening to the news from Gaza. Previously I had been picking my way through the month, unsure yet about tone and content. From that point on I knew what I was writing about and where I was going with the posts. I learned in that moment that the right 97 words are the most powerful.
3. Write at the time of day that works for you – I wrote an entire substack about this point so I won’t labour it here, but I have always felt a little uncomfortable with not being a writer who gets up in the morning keen to write. I struggle in the mornings, they are my worst time. But, there is a certain point in the evening where I suddenly get a burst of clarity and creativity and this, it turns out, is the perfect moment – sandwiched between the day that has gone and bedtime. It doesn’t look as shiny as a ‘get up and write’ routine, but unlike that nice idea this actually works.
4. Find your voice – I’m not sure academia really encourages this practice. It can become a very formulaic process, writing for peer review. But the posts that resonated with my readers on substack were the most personal and creative, where I took some reflexive point from my own experience and expanded upon it. I did not plan to write about my husband’s health crisis and my own mental health challenges in the substack – but writing about them led me forward as a writer more effectively than peer review ever has.
5. Write where you are – by which I mean follow your inspiration in the present moment. The substack gave me the freedom to pursue each thought day by day without having to park it for another time, and this resulted in much deeper writing and more fully processed ideas. I learned in my PhD to ‘follow the rabbit trail’ when something sparked in my readings. This month has also taught me to write about it now, without waiting and without forcing myself into an overly planned process or timeline.
6. Imperfect is good enough – we tend to be our own worst critics, and this causes blocks. Over the thirty days I became less and less cautious about pressing send. By treating the substack like a sketchbook full of unfinished but interesting writing experiments, I was able to avoid the trap of perfectionism that haunts many academics. It turned out that imperfect and rough was also interesting and fun. I wrote more and more confidently as I left polish behind.
7. Persistence pays off – I did not know where a month of writing in this way was going to take me, but by patiently showing up for myself day by day through November I discovered not only the bare bones of a book, but also a tone, a writing style, a potential audience, and a number of starting points to take me forward. I also learned to think of myself as a writer again, rather than an ex-academic. I have continued to write on the substack through Advent, and will be making it an ongoing space for research-based posts in the new year (though not every day). More importantly, I now have a book outline on my wall ready for the New Year.

There are so many writing guides and writing rules out there, especially for specialist writing like academia. They may all be full of good ideas and practical experience, but the reality is that writing is unique and personal, and your writing practices need to reflect this truth. The lessons I learned from writing everyday are not dramatic revelations – they were the lessons I needed to learn and take note of at this moment in my career. Your lessons might be different. As with all forms of advice, apply my observations with caution.

If you would like support with your writing, I have spaces for one-to-one coaching opening in the New Year. You could also join our community for weekly co-writing, a monthly workshop, and monthly group coaching. Find out more about the community space here or get in touch using the form below.