The Habits and Mindset of Prolific Writers

Isaac Assimov wrote or edited over 500 books and roughly 90,000 letters in his 72 years. Romance novelist Barbara Cartland wrote more than 700 books, while Stephen King has written 60-full length works of fiction and nearly 200 short stories. 

Today there is a big debate between the importance of talent versus grit. "Some people just have it while others don't," is the refrain I hear most frequently. But if there's anything I've learned from some of the most prolific writers of our time it's first and foremost about simply sitting down and doing the work. That level of discipline has become extraordinarily rare in this age of constant distraction and short attention spans. Here are some of the habits I've noticed in some of the creators I admire most:

1. They don't wait for inspiration. What the Isaac Assimov's and Hemingway's of the world understood is you can't simply wait for some divine revelation to hit you. You have to write whether you feel like it or not and, here's the key, stay consistent. This means falling madly in love with failure, being able to stomach your work being bad, and setting a time each day where you plant yourself sans distraction and write. As David Mamet once said, "I'm not any less confused about it than you are. I just got in the habit of doing it." 

2. They don't allow themselves to be thwarted by the criticism of others. Playwright Edward Albee once said, "I didn't stop writing just because you didn't like it." If you're writing as consistently as people like Stephen King or Woody Allen chances are the work is not always going to be great. In fact, much of it will be underwhelming. The key is to not let that stop you from trying. One of the greatest impediments to becoming a master craftsman is the inability to tolerate something not being great. The key is to appreciate the road to mastery is a long and fleeting journey but you can only get there if you keep going.

3. They set up small "wins." Author, photographer, and weightlifter James Clear talks a great deal about small wins. His weekly newsletter devoted to uncovering habits and routines that make people extraordinary goes out every week come rain, sleet, or snow. He understands that there will be some days where you just don't feel like doing something but that it's still key to put in the work. You may write 5 sentences one day, or 2 the next. But rather than criticizing yourself for not being Shakespeare you can honor the effort. And if you feel like you're in a perpetual state of frustration it's very likely your expectations are too high and you're being unfair to yourself. This mindset has the tendency to stymie any effort and leave us sitting idle rather than focusing on being proactive regardless of how significant the output. 

Sister Circle

Back in grad school we studied playwrights like Brecht, Shakespeare, Odets, Williams, and my favorite, Ibsen. Each writer presented a unique glimpse of the world and wildly different challenges. 

But looking back one thing there wasn't a great deal of was work from women or people of color. The voices were compelling but often felt linear in tone. It was probably something my overly earnest and anxious 25-year old self didn't really take the time to consider. I was just happy to be performing.

There were a handful of classmates, who thankfully, felt different. A group of African-American girls started a terrific little theater company called, Sister Circle. The group was made up of actors and playwrights who wrote, directed, produced, and performed original works. The stories were bold, unique, and personal. The girls were a big hit.

Most importantly, Sister Circle was an excellent example of a group of artists who refused to wait for permission to get their stories told. They felt the program wasn't doing enough to support underrepresented voices and instead of complaining took bold initiative to do something about it. It's a story that still inspires me to this day.

Never Again

Years ago I participated in a summer acting program called the Training Congress at A.C.T. in San Francisco. The 9-week course was an introduction to what a 3-year MFA program might look like.  

There were between 60 - 70 young actors divided up into groups noted by color. I was in the Red Group led by an American actor who'd flown in from Rome where he was living.

For weeks we studied voice, Shakespeare, and the Greeks. We critiqued one another's scenes, learned how to break down a scene, and got some helpful tips on auditioning. By the end, I was ready to start applying for the real deal.

On the last day of class I strolled up to my teacher as he wrapped up speaking to a classmate. I remember it clear as day as we stood on the roof of 30 Grant Street with a clear view of downtown San Francisco.

"I'm thinking of applying to MFA programs in the fall. Any advice?" I asked. He thought it over for what seemed like hours before saying, "You have to work a lot harder." I remember being both surprised and embarrassed by his observation. I felt my stomach tighten suddenly compelled to defend myself. But the truth was he was right.

From that point on I promised myself nobody would ever be able to say that to me again. And not just as an actor but in every arena of my life.

I grew to be comfortable with failure as long as I could comfortably walk away and say I'd given it absolutely everything I had. 

Since that day I've been able to say as much and it's made all the difference.

This is the Only Moment that Matters

During my second year of grad school a handful of actors in my class performed Shakespeare sonnets one evening. The assignment was optional and I remember being surprised by how few wanted to do it. Shakespeare felt daunting for a lot of us but I still thought it'd be worth doing even though I was petrified.

I sat in the front row before my performance repeating the words, "This is me," over and over. I must have looked like a mad man to the 10 or so people in the audience. But the words had a calming affect on me. They centered me and reminded me that all that mattered was the moment I was in.

The weeks before one of my most important mentors had been harping on society's inability to be present. We focus on what was, or what one must do in the future and rarely take the time to acknowledge what is happening before us.

Her argument was, presence is the foundation for truthful storytelling. If we don't listen we can't respond. If we can't respond authentically to what is happening right before us the audience tunes out refusing to invest in the actor's artifice.

Admittedly, I've lost touch with that idea over the years. Not always. But from time to time I've felt myself saying, "Go, go, go," rather than "Here, here, here." But those moments I do check back in (which I'm trying to do a great deal more of) are the only truthful moments of my day. 

To check-in with yourself and really take personal inventory of how you're feeling is the most important thing you can do. It's the foundation from which everything else originates. To remind yourself that, THIS is the only moment that matters.

I'd even take my mentor's philosophy that presence is the not only the foundation for truthful storytelling but also for the most authentic of human experiences. 

A Tricky Hump to Get Over

As I got further and further into my acting career, one of the challenges I began to wrestle with most was how my work would be received by the world. As a young actor, there was rarely a moment where I doubted the influence I had delivering a Shakespeare monologue, or a scene from Pinter. I was presumptuous and wildly naive.

As I became more experienced, I realized not everyone cared about the work I'd put into bringing a character to life, or the stories I so desperately wanted to tell. And looking back on it, I wonder what I expected of people. Did I really believe the spotlight, both literally and figuratively should always shine on me? Who did I think I was?

Still, it proved a difficult hump to get over for a long time. Though my hangups may have been rooted to some degree in selfishness, my intentions were also earnest. I simply wanted to share my passion with anyone who'd listen.

What I forgot was the work first needed to matter to me. It was that level of authenticity to myself and my creativity that had first drawn people in. And because for so many years the work was inherently meaningful, I wasn't so disheartened when others didn't share my sentiments.

It's a bummer when the house lights go on and you see scores of empty seats. If you're an actor long enough it'll happen more often than not.

But what's important is to remember why the work matters in the first place. If it resonates with you and you still feel it matters than you'll learn to take the ambivalence of others less personally.

Abundant Creativity

One of the many incredible parts about living in New York is the abundance of wildly different ways creative expression is shared all around you. From the New York Philharmonic to the Brooklyn Museum to art shows in makeshift galleries, there are stories being told constantly in countless mediums.

It wasn't until I arrived in New York and began studying theater that I realized ideas cross-pollinate and cross-inspire. Looking at the detail of an Edward Hopper painting at the Museum of Modern Art made me approach dialogue in a Pinter play with a new sense of heightened awareness.

Observing the amount of energy and commitment it takes for a dance company to bring a recital to life at Alvin Ailey, nudged me to dig my heels in a little deeper with the likes of Shakespeare and Brecht.

And listening to the nuances and rhythms of a blues band one evening on MacDougal Street taught me we practice tirelessly to gain freedom within a structured environment.

Seek inspiration whenever and wherever possible. It may influence your own craft in delightfully unforeseen ways.

Caring

Back in drama school, I remember having to rummage through old costumes and hand-me down toys each week with my classmates before putting up a scene for our professors. On occasion you'd run into actors in the same tiny prop closet and get into arguments over who got to use a plastic sword, or a broken sawhorse to bring the pages of Brecht, Ibsen, and Shakespeare to life.

At a quick glance it seems almost comical; just a bunch of kids over-reacting to something that now seems frivolous. But the more I think about it, maybe we were actually on to something. We all wanted to create so badly, to bring a world to life. Caring so much about something can't be a bad thing.