All the Books I May Never Write
The Subtle Distinction Between Procrastination and Incubation
My wife and I like to play a game. It’s called, “That’s your next book.”
Whenever I go on a rant about something that irks me, and that is many things—like the depressing state of the suburbs or how all social media is a pyramid scheme—she says, “That’s your next book.”
Sometimes, I even say it myself.
It’s a nice reminder that I still have things to contribute, that my greatest work may yet be ahead of me.
But it also may not.
Every writer I know does this. They assume they have more fuel in the tank, more work to contribute, more things to say. And they are probably right; until, of course, they are not. Nothing lasts forever, and that includes you.
We are all just guessing as to what lies ahead and when we might not only breathe our last breath but speak our final word. At some point, though, the road will end, perhaps more suddenly than expected, and you will be left to consider all the things you never got to do.
It’s a lovely thing to plan on leaving this world with no regrets, and I believe some do just that, but I have always been aware of all the possibilities that could have been my life and wondered if I will realize every one of them. My guess is I will not. “We all die unfinished symphonies,” a friend once said to me, and I thought that was an eloquent and depressing thought—but probably true.
There is a certain beauty to accepting this fate, to making peace with your own limitations, creative and otherwise. The true artist is, in fact, never done: always starting a new thing, opening yet another can of worms; but at some point, you will inevitably start a work that will not reach its completion in this life. And that, I think, is preferable to resting on your laurels for fifty years and then going to sleep one night never to wake up again.
In other words, I’d rather die with five incomplete books in me than try to end on the last “high note.” The goal of a writer is to be working, always. Don’t sit still for too long; don’t get lost in the minefields of your imagination. I don’t always do this, but it’s the right way to live and work.
Our job, as writers, is to not finish but to keep beginning. That is the life of any artist. Granted, no creator knows which of their attempts at success will succeed, if any, and which ones may fall flat. That is not ours to know, and as natural as this not-knowing is, it can drive a person mad.
The best means of staying sane in the arts is to have a work you are constantly coming back to. A project. A masterpiece. Something. The discipline of a steady slate of ongoing projects keeps boredom at bay and gives a life purpose. That probably applies to more than just writers, but I wouldn’t know anything about that.
Mostly, I have come to terms with the books I will likely never write. Like that semi-autobiographical novel loosely based on the events of Ernest Hemingway’s life. Or the collection of narrative nonfiction essays I keep toying with. I may never finish the advice book I started for my kids or that very steamy story of how I met my wife. I might not even get around to starting, or completing, my Emerson-like meditations on a simpler life. Or my first real book of poems.
Then again, maybe I will.
Maybe I’ll do it all.
Perhaps, as Steven Pressfield once told me, I will create more than I ever thought possible. Maybe, he assured me over breakfast one morning in West Hollywood, all these books already exist, floating around somewhere in the ether and waiting to be plucked.
I may never write another book. Or I may write thirty more. Both are plausible scenarios. Most days, I choose to believe the latter. I think it helps. I am fortunate enough to be surrounded by supportive voices who encourage me, and these include my children, wife, and friends. They remind me I am still young, and more is yet possible.
Even if that’s not true, it’s comforting to think. Most of life is that way: choosing to believe whatever gets you through another day, week, month, or year. For me, the sheer possibility that I may not be done is reason enough to keep going. Which brings me to my real point (yes, it took a while to get there). There is a major difference between procrastination and what I consider “creative incubation.” Knowing when you’re doing which makes all the difference.
Recently, a new author asked me when a person is still figuring out what he wants to say and when he is just putting off saying it. What’s the difference, he wondered, between true procrastination and just getting your ducks in a row?
I remember feeling similarly years ago while working on my fourth book, and my editor-at-the-time
told me that writing and thinking about writing are essentially the same thing. For some reason, that stuck.Incidentally, Joel has spent the greater part of a decade working on a book that is finally under contract with a publisher. Knowing him and how much he toiled over this work, I can safely say it was a case of incubation. To be sure, there must have been times of distraction for him; but what I know about Joel is that a good chunk of that time was spent on the book itself: considering what it was, what it needed to be, and how he was going to pull that off.
And he was, of course, writing during much of that time.
Still, so much of the writing life consists in not writing. The publishing deals, the release dates, the much-mythologized book tours and signings are not what an author knows. Not really.
What we know is getting up and reading five books at once, going for a walk, having breakfast, talking to a friend, complaining to a neighbor, thinking about things that won’t leave you alone, listening to a record, eating lunch, taking another walk, pretending to write, actually writing, thinking about what you will write next, then realizing it’s time for dinner.
You think and talk and walk and think and talk. And then, you write. This is the writing life, at least the only one I have ever known.
So much of the writing life consists in not writing.
As Henry David Thoreau once mused, “How vain is it to sit down and write when you have not stood up to live.” Of course, “living” for a writer may look quite mundane to the average person. It might be taking your kids to school or paying the bills and mowing the lawn. But if you do it with a clear head and open mind, this is enough.
You don’t have to be a hero to be a writer. But you must have thought carefully about what you want to say before you will do any good sitting down and trying to put it on the page. It takes a lot of time and effort to write, and most of that time is spent considering what should and should not be written.
This is the cause of a lot of so-called “writer’s block.” You aren’t blocked. You simply haven’t thought through what it is you want to say. So when you sit down, nothing comes out. The issue is not one of concentration but consciousness. You aren’t ready to write, you don’t even know what this thing is yet, and that’s okay.
Don’t force the idea; get to know it. Good things take time. But eventually there comes a point when it has reached its maturity; and if you don’t act now, it will expire. Like good wine, once an idea peaks, it starts to degrade soon after being the best possible version of itself. Eventually, if not acted upon, the thing will move on and find another willing participant in this strange alchemy.
How does this happen, and when?
No one knows exactly, but my experience suggests that there is a very real feeling inside of you. You can sense the drift, like that of a disinterested lover; a certain coldness starts to settle in.
This is a warning: act now or resign yourself to a lifetime of regret.
Of course, ideas come and go, some seemingly more brilliant than others, and you don’t always have the chance to capture them. That’s all right. It’s like going on a date and concluding the person you’re courting is out of your league. It’s humbling, but there is nothing wrong with admitting your own inadequacy. This is vastly preferable to assuming you can do something you cannot.
Just because you are able to imagine a story doesn’t mean you should be the one to write it. Learn to let ideas go graciously. It will make your writing life easier, I promise.
If, however, you find yourself bouncing from one project to the next, unable to commit to the latest work and not willing to take it past the first few pages, then you are procrastinating. Pushing off the discomfort of creation, you may find yourself endlessly holding out for the right time, which never comes. Living like this results in no real output and a lifetime of wondering “what could have been.”
As someone who did this for a decade, I do not recommend it.
But let’s say, on the other hand, that you wake early in the morning, stirred by a thought, and it comes back to haunt you at various hours of the day, especially when you are quiet. And when you do think about it, the concept only gets stronger. If it matures with time, if it increases in clarity, then this could be a case of creative incubation. You might actually have something here.
Meanwhile, you are likely still producing other work. The idea is in the chrysalis, readying itself for emergence; but it is still a baby, incapable of walking on its own. It needs proper care and attention, like any infant, and that attention must come from you.
As its parent, your job is to tend to this fledgling idea: bring it out as often as you can without demanding too much of it; don’t lock it up and expect something beautiful to emerge without struggle—let it grow, wildly and beautifully. At times, you may decide to set it aside for months, or even years, but do not take this as permission to neglect it. A plant growing slowly under the careful watch of its owner, watered when it needs it, is not the same as one carelessly left in the shade to wilt and rot.
Some day, perhaps sooner than you realize, the idea will eventually blossom. It will return like a freight train, shaking the walls of your mind. It may appear like a storm, demanding your attention. And when that happens, don’t let the feeling pass; heed the call to write what wants to be written. Open the bottle and get drunk on your own genius. Who knows when another time like this will emerge, if ever?
Such occasions are rarer than we realize and require great care, but being ready for them is half the battle. Try not to confuse incubation for procrastination, and vice versa, as they can appear eerily similar at first. But there is a great deal of difference between something fragile and something flimsy. Navigating the tension between these two is the stuff that a creative life is made of.
Maybe that’s my next book.
What’s yours?
What a beautiful piece, Jeff. Reading this post stopped me in my haste. I had to slow down to enjoy your writing.
I think navigating incubation and procrastination is the artist’s odyssey. For example, I had the idea for my latest Substack piece for almost two years. I had notes about it all over the place. One day, in a burst of inspiration, I wrote a draft. When I came back to review it, I realized it was not saved in my note app due to a bad internet connection, so I just gave up. Recently, as part of a writing group, I felt the piece rising in me, and I finally wrote it. Miraculously, the idea did not come by itself; it birthed many other interesting ideas that I hope to bring to life.
Being okay with our finitude is such a liberating and painful truth to accept.
Reminds me of that saying that a "work is never truly completed, just abandoned". Seems that might hold true of a life, too. Love your words. : )