Hello from the darkest, quietest corner of Second Home London Fields. Last week I was at the Spitalfields hub for a meeting, and wow, that place is an expression of verdantly noisy-organic capitalism is about to become. Hundreds of people ranked laptop-by-keepcup, each a private production line. At 5:30, everyone shut up ship and rushed upstairs for Caipirinhas in the sunshine of the roof terrace, moated by the tumbledowns of Brick Lane and behind that, the metal tsunami of the City, bearing down on us all. Nice drinks and nice people, though.
Hence last weeks’s offer of portable peace (which quite a lot of you liked - hello, new subscribers. There’s plenty of seats all around. Some people have started sitting on the floor, and this is only ever a compliment.)
Today I’ve gone back to London Fields and quiet corner because it’s a day to think, and a day to make. You can’t have ‘em every day. Things have their own rhythm. You can’t dance through a song faster.
On Patience
My first adult experience of writing was at speed: National Novel Writing Month is the kind of name for a thing where people assume that the name is kind of a joke. But no, there really is a thing in this world where a bunch of people with cosmic-grade FOMO gather to try and pump out a whole book - beginning, middle, end - between the 1st of November and the 30th of November. This is of course foolish, as well as a fantastic thing to do as it evaporates the main reason why writers don’t write. The sense that there will come a better time to do this - nope! The novel train’s leaving the station; are you climbing on or waving it off? The fear you might produce a bad book - irrelevant, because when you only have a month, bad is inevitable and no amount of fear will dissuade that!
I did it in 2008, and I’d recommend it to anyone. But it left me with the sense that all written work is a race. That heat and passion is always the answer. Quite a 2008 thing to think, perhaps. A couple of years later, I read Stephen King’s book On Writing, which is a genuinely good contribution to its eponymous field, but also has this:
“I believe the first draft of a book — even a long one — should take no more than three months.”
Hahahahaaaaagh. He’s right, of course; if you have all the pieces in place there’s no reason why it can’t take about a season. And if it does you’ll hopefully have wonderfully cohesive piece of work (as well as a nice anecdote: Summer ‘19, the year of…)
But no advice is universal. Back to the park, six weeks ago. The mentor who first led me to the idea of oxygen work also said this, paraphrased:
No matter how good at something you are, assume that it will take at least one year, probably two, to really really get your business off the ground.”
She explained that even if people like you and what you do, there is a completely independent timeline for them to get to the point where they can actually buy it. I know this to be true, otherwise my partner and I would probably be in Japan right now. So, while you can run your particular part of the race when it’s your turn to do so, know that you’re going to spend a lot of your time in this life doing something a lot like waiting. Proactive waiting. Productive waiting. Waiting with a smile on your face, pen in your hand, always ready for things to start moving. Pushing pieces into place so that when they do, you are ready to move with them.
Three months caused me a lot of angst when I first discovered it. Weirdly, two years has not. I hope that means I’m learning the power of patience, the weight of the wait.
My Website is up.
This is both a destination itself, and a big stop on the road ahead to something better. After a labour of patience, I’ve finally set up shop at problemsolvedstorytold.com. It’s been eight weeks of drafting, honest conversations, honest feedback, and UX basics. Readers of Eureka #3 will recognise some of the language. Beyond that, a lot has come from the process of explaining to enough people, verbally, what I do. Perhaps this means that like Gladwell’s 10,000 hours, a story takes at least ten conversations. It’s why I insist on a face-to-face conversation at the start of the Eureka process, as it boils language down to the human tenor.
But anyway. I’m so pleased to finally have this up. There’s a lot to do (as always), but for now, please spare five minutes to have a look. And if you, or someone you know could use what I offer, now’s the time to reach out.
Inputs
To counterbalance my selective treatment of Stephen King’s On Writing, I offer you the sublime, thoughtful way he ends it:
“Writing isn't about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it's about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well. It's about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy.”
That’s it for now. You have a great week, okay?
-James
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