In 1932-33, while working on his first published novel, Tropic of Cancer, Henry Miller designed a daily personal routine to keep himself on track. The successful regimen he devised included a set of 11 “commandments” which can be found not only all over the Internet, but in his book, Henry Miller on Writing.
For years, I’ve kept Miller’s commandments nearby, usually written into my current journal for easy reference. I get distracted easily from what’s important, and it’s helpful to have some sort of guide or mantra to keep me focused. Since I left the Army in 2013, I’ve published a few things, fiction and non-fiction. (Not to mention a lot of web content—what I like to call “the stuff nobody reads”—that pays the bills.) But I’ve had a novel on the back burner even longer than that. In 2008, while serving in Iraq, I started a science-fiction novel that I’ve been more or less passively working on ever since. In its present state, it’s an accretion of scenes, character sketches, ideas, and alternate endings. For the past couple months, I’ve focused on completing an outline for the book that, as of January 1st, I’ve started fleshing out in earnest.
What I see ahead is a lot of joyful work that I’ll have to fit into a life full of endless distractions, some important and some irrelevant, and I realize that a set of rules formulated almost a century ago might need a new interpretation—an update for writers in a pandemic-stricken world saturated with demands and distractions the likes of which Mr. Miller could never have imagined. More than that, I need to do the same sort of thing Miller did while writing his first successful novel. I need a set of working guidelines that fit my own writing style and my own life.
Fortunately, I don’t have to start from scratch. I’ve long admired Miller’s way of thinking, and his 11 commandments are so sensible and straightforward. But, as I mentioned, they’re a bit dated.
Joan Didion wrote, “I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.”
That’s why I’m here now, and the reason I’m doing it publicly is that I think it might benefit another distracted, undisciplined writer like myself.
In case you’re unfamiliar with Miller’s Commandments, here they are:
Work on one thing at a time until you are done.
Start no more new books, add no new material to Black Spring.
Don’t be nervous. Work calmly, joyously, recklessly on whatever is at hand.
Work according to program and not according to mood. Stop at the appointed time.
When you can’t create, you can work.
Cement a little every day, rather than add new fertilizers.
Keep human! See people, go places, drink if you like.
Don’t be a draught horse! Work with pleasure only.
Discard the program when you feel like it, but go back to it next day–concentrate. Narrow down. Exclude.
Forget the books you want to write. Think only of the book you are writing.
Write first and always. Painting, music, friends, cinema, all these come afterwards.
That first one has never worked for me. My challenge is never coming up with ideas; it’s choosing which to pursue, and finishing what I start. Nevertheless, I need to apply self-discipline if I’m going to get anything done. So for me, it’s a matter of focusing on certain projects on particular days, especially considering that I’m a freelance writer/editor with paying work on deadline. Steve Howell’s 21st Century Writing Commandments start with—
1. Focus on the work scheduled for the day, and nothing else. When shiny new ideas tempt you, write them down quickly, then get back to the scheduled work.
Miller’s second commandment is closely related to the first, and for him I suppose new book ideas posed a big threat to staying on task. But I’ve usually got more than one pot on the fire. For me, number two looks like this:
2. Work on the book every day, except Friday. On Friday, explore new ideas, write short stories, poetry, songs, or whatever you’re compelled to create. On Sunday write an essay to solidify your own thinking, and have a running list of ideas for more posts. Return to the book on Monday as you would to an enthusiastic lover.
Miller’s third commandment absolutely applies to me. I tend to hold back out of concern for what loved ones, friends, and relatives will think of the finished (hopefully published) product. Nevertheless, an update is in order. In a 2007 NPR interview by Alex Chadwick, Kurt Vonnegut said, “…I think, even when painting a picture or composing music, is to do it with one person in mind. I don't think you can open a window and make love to the whole world."
At times, I may write with a specific person in mind, but that person is usually me. Remember Toni Morrison’s words, “If there's a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it.”
Yes! That’s exactly why I’m writing the book I’m writing, and if no one else ever reads it, I plan to enjoy the hell out of creating it. So, Steve’s third commandment looks like this.
3. Write any damn thing you want. Write for yourself. Explore your darkest fears and most deeply buried fantasies, and press on to the finish with wild abandon. Write now. Edit later.
Commandment the Fourth is inviolable for a couple reasons. If you’re waiting for the Muse to stick her tongue in your ear, you may wait a long, long time. She’s not the most faithful or reliable source of inspiration, and what you churn out through sheer force of will thinking, “what garbage,” upon later inspection may turn out to be better than you thought. Trust yourself, and stick to the plan. Number four, in plain modern language, might look something like,
4. Set a schedule, and stick to it. Being “in the mood” is a luxury to be savored, not a prerequisite for getting shit done. Quit at the scheduled time each day in such a way that the next day’s work begins in the middle of the previous day’s unfinished thought.
Let’s face it—some days are going to be bad. Maybe you’re sick, exhausted, or emotionally injured. That’s why Miller’s fifth commandment allows a bit of grace on days when the creativity well is bone-dry. But that doesn’t mean you spend the day with Netflix and a bottle of bourbon. Maybe you have some structure issues to work out. Maybe a character’s backstory is a bit murky. On days when you’d rather stick a #2 pencil in your eye than try to write a scene, it’s still important to maintain contact with the work. So Miller’s number five works for me, unaltered. Your lifespan is ticking down. Get busy.
5. When you can’t create, you can work.
On first glance, Miller’s number six is a bit obscure. “Cement a little every day, rather than add new fertilizers.” Say what, Miller?
My interpretation of this comes from my own frustrating experience with having so many ideas. I work in Scrivener, which is great for keeping a long project organized. I have a folder called “ideas,” and it’s full of things that conflict with each other, not to mention what I may already have written into the novel. What number six means to me is that you have to make decisions, stick to them, and be consistent. If you can’t decide which set of custom wheels to put on your vintage hot rod, you’re never going to get out of the garage for the car show. So…
6. Consistently solidify characters and plot, every day, until the first draft is complete. Don’t let the Good Idea Fairy out of the cage until you have a finished draft to edit.
Number seven is good advice. For most people. For others, this can get out of hand, especially the part about drinking. Here’s looking at you, Hemingway. There’s a myth about great writing that says one can’t be creative unless they put on a good buzz.
It’s bullshit.
As a writer, your most valuable asset is your mind. Fogging your brain with drugs or alcohol is like driving at night with a dirty windshield, and when you factor in hangovers, you may find yourself in a forever-loop of Miller’s number five—always tweaking details and never making real progress. Here’s my take on commandment seven.
7. Enjoy your life! Maintain relationships, travel, plan things with people you love. At the end of the workday, celebrate incremental accomplishments any way you like…as long as you’re back in the chair on time, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, the next morning.
Sorry about the bright-eyed and bushy tailed thing—it’s something my 75-year-old mom used to say when I was a kid in rural South Florida. Something about squirrels, I guess.
On to number eight. We all know that feeling when we’ve been at it eight days a week for as long as we can remember. Sometimes you’ve just got to go AWOL. That’s fine, as long as you have a plan for catching up. My version says,
8. You’re not a slave to the work. The work is for your joy and fulfillment. If you’re starting to hate the thing you’re creating, take time to clear your head and get your shit together.
Number Nine? Number Nine? Grab your headphones, and read on.
I digress. But that’s what writers do sometimes, isn’t it. We end up focusing our limited attention on things we’re not supposed to be doing. Laundry has to be done. Call our sister. Paint a cabinet. Make paper dolls. Anything but writing.
Again in commandment number nine, Miller allows himself some grace for those times when acting like a grownup is a bit of a stretch. He says, “discard the program when you feel like it—but go back to it the next day. Concentrate. Narrow down. Exclude.”
More good advice. Here’s my version.
9. Establish an average weekly word count. If you skip a day, fine, but make up for it during the rest of the week. When you’re feeling good, push past the daily word count. That’ll give you some wiggle room for days when the Muse has thrown a vase at your head and locked herself in the bathroom. Distill. Simplify.
Or, as the medieval samurai, Miyamoto Musashi wrote, “Do nothing which is of no use.” Good luck with that. It’s my daily struggle.
In commandment ten, Miller reminds himself once again to stay on task, to the exclusion of everything else. I mostly agree, but wouldn’t it be a shame to lose a good idea? How about this?
10. Focus on the book you’re writing, right now. If the Good Idea Fairy clobbers you with something sparkly, write it down and get back to work. Only finished books get published.
If you’re still with me, thank you. Finally, number eleven. I’m considering making this number one because commandment eleven is Miller telling himself that writing is the most important thing a writer does. It’s like the proverbial rocks-pebbles-sand analogy of time management the professor demonstrates to his class by producing an empty jar, filling it with rocks, and asking the class if it’s full. “Yes,” they say. Then he drops pebbles in-between the rocks, and asks again. Yep, it’s full, they say. Then he pours sand into the last of the airspace in the jar to demonstrate how we should prioritize tasks. Rocks are the most important, pebbles next, and sand represents all the meaningless little ways we spend so much of our time.
“If I’d put the sand in first,” the professor says, “there wouldn’t have been room left for the rocks.”
If you’re reading this, chances are writing is your biggest rock. Drop it in the jar, and then decide what else fits in there with it. For me, some of the other major rocks are relationships, health and fitness, and maintaining our 70-year-old home. Here’s my version of commandment number eleven.
11. To take writing seriously, structure life around it. Don’t treat it like a guilty pleasure or a hobby. People who love you will understand.
I’m not a published novelist yet, but neither was Henry Miller when he came up with his list of commandments. They seem to have worked out well for him.
And there’s my Sunday writing sorted out. I can’t wait to get back into the novel tomorrow morning, but for the rest of this Sunday I’m going to spend time with my wife, maybe go for a run, have a nice dinner, watch a movie, and catch up on some reading.
Steve Howell's 21st Century Writing Commandments:
Focus on the work scheduled for the day, and nothing else. When shiny new ideas tempt you, write them down quickly, then get back to the scheduled work.
Work on the book every day, except Friday. On Friday, explore new ideas, write short stories, poetry, songs, or whatever you’re compelled to create. On Sunday write an essay to solidify your own thinking, and have a running list of ideas for more posts. Return to the book on Monday as you would to an enthusiastic lover.
Write any damn thing you want. Write for yourself. Explore your darkest fears and most deeply buried fantasies, and press on to the finish with wild abandon. Write now. Edit later.
Set a schedule, and stick to it. Being “in the mood” is a luxury to be savored, not a prerequisite for getting shit done. Quit at the scheduled time each day in such a way that the next day’s work begins in the middle of the previous day’s unfinished thought.
When you can’t create, you can work.
Consistently solidify characters and plot, every day, until the first draft is complete. Don’t let the Good Idea Fairy out of the cage until you have a finished draft to edit.
Enjoy your life! Maintain relationships, travel, plan things with people you love. At the end of the workday, celebrate incremental accomplishments any way you like…as long as you’re back in the chair on time, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, the next morning.
You’re not a slave to the work. The work is for your joy and fulfillment. If you’re starting to hate the thing you’re creating, take time to clear your head and get your shit together.
Establish an average weekly word count. If you skip a day, fine, but make up for it during the rest of the week. When you’re feeling good, push past the daily word count. That’ll give you some wiggle room for days when the Muse has thrown a vase at your head and locked herself in the bathroom. Distill. Simplify.
Focus on the book you’re writing, right now. If the Good Idea Fairy clobbers you with something sparkly, write it down and get back to work. Only finished books get published.
To take writing seriously, structure life around it. Don’t treat it like a guilty pleasure or a hobby. People who love you will understand.