“More isn’t always better, Linus. Sometimes, it’s just MORE.”
I treasure this quote from the (essentially perfect) 1995 film Sabrina. It inspires me to offer my own variation:
“Faster isn’t always better, world. Sometimes, it’s just . . . more tiring.”
I know the world moves fast. The business world moves even faster. Every single job description I have perused over the past five months on the job market has one common factor listed among the position requirements: “Must thrive in a fast-paced environment.”
Here’s the thing: I do thrive in a fast-paced environment. I am performance-driven, detail-oriented, and conscientiously diligent. When several plates are spinning in the air and I have to sprint back and forth to keep them all aloft, part of me comes alive.
But that part of me is finite. It’s not meant to run indefinitely.
Treadmills are marvelous inventions, but if you keep one at a ‘push yourself’ pace during a fifteen-mile run and don’t listen to your body, you get injured. (Totally not speaking from personal experience . . .) My adult life has been an experience of learning my limitations: knowing when to push the pace and go flat-out, and when to back off. I have discovered that slowing down at strategic periods can actually make me faster, overall.
Over the next two posts, I will share two key reminders of this lesson from my summer.
First, I returned to writing after a long sabbatical. I was excited about the book brewing in my heart and savored every word as it flowed onto the page. The story was bubbling up so dynamically, I assumed I would finish it at a record pace. This, I thought, will be a splendid use of my post-layoff ‘free time’.
Sweet, naive, April-2026 Ruth. Bless her heart.
I have been writing diligently for five months. The book is making progress, but I still have roughly 25% to go. Yet the important lesson is not a(nother) reminder to be kind to myself, though that has certainly been on the educational menu for this summer.
The key takeaway has been relearning how to EMBRACE the creative process in all its slow, torturous glory.
In his illuminating memoir On Writing, Stephen King compares the writing process to an archaeological dig. An author is unearthing bits of story and trying to figure out how they fit together. I find this image beautifully expressive. For one thing, it explains how we can still be writing new books even though every ‘original’ story has already been told many times over. The material may be universal, but the way we approach it is endlessly unique. Give a group of five authors the same set of ‘story-bones’, and you will get five very different stories.
For another thing, though, King’s image reminds us that the excavation of a story cannot be rushed. Some bits are large, but most are teensy-weensy and would be missed if one is moving too fast.
For myself, writing a book feels like trying to navigate a dark, labyrinthine tunnel. I feel my way along, hugging the wall and a few faintly glowing story-threads. As I go, I discover other threads, some leading down other tunnels which branch off to the right and the left. I must decide which to incorporate and which to discard for future journeys.
It is a delicate process. Sometimes, I get hold of a strong, brightly-glowing thread, and I am able to move fast. But the way is far more often slow. I occasionally have to sit at an intersection for a few days, like Gandalf in the Mines of Moria, waiting for a breath of air from one of the tunnels to set my collection of story-threads vibrating. If I rush through the tunnels at my ‘push yourself’ treadmill pace, I might miss the one thread that led to a hitherto undiscovered character/setting/plot point: a new tunnel that will get me to the other side by a much richer, more fascinating route.
When we blaze through the creative process, we might blaze right past the next chapter of our own story.
Every writer is different, of course. But, for me, the struggle to birth a book—that journey through the tunnels—is where the magic happens. Not only is the story becoming more of what it is meant to be, but I am being shaped. The tension of sitting in that silence is making me a better listener. A better writer. A better storyteller.
A better human.
In this video, renowned writer David Epstein (Range, The Sports Gene, Inside the Box) discusses the idea of ‘desirable difficulty’. He explains that when we have to slow down, we often feel like we’re doing something wrong. We’re failing. But, in fact, struggle is what produces growth. If a subject is easy for you, that doesn’t mean you’re learning. The opposite, in fact.
(If you want an expanded version of this idea, watch David’s longer video here!)
It’s important to embrace that struggle—to sit in the tension of NOT KNOWING, rather than reaching for an easily accessible answer. The struggle is what stretches our mind-muscles and trains us to persevere. It’s what forms in us the strength to reach the eventual goal (usually at a faster overall pace!), instead of burning out and falling over.
Fast isn’t terrible. There’s nothing like those days when I feel like I’m flying—when the words are flowing easily and the way through the story-tunnel is brightly illuminated. But I also want to savor the other times: the slow, painful times when it takes all my effort to pen a single paragraph.
Meaning is being made. Stories are being told. Muscles are being conditioned. So, when next I step on the treadmill, I’ll be able to push the pace a bit faster, for a bit longer.
Often, ‘slow’ is where the true magic is happening.
I leave you with the wise words of the inimitable Treebeard, who knows a thing or three about the importance of going slowly:
“You must understand, young Hobbit, it takes a long time to say anything in Old Entish. And we never say anything unless it is worth taking a long time to say.” ~ The Two Towers, J.R.R. Tolkien
