When Tara and I still lived in Joplin, I witnessed one father’s transformation from a mediocre parent into a good parent. He’d been the kind of tiger dad, the ruthless victor, who pushed his kids towards success and integrity at the expense of their joy (his words, not mine). He and I were walking through the library of our alma mater when the head of the psychotherapy department — Dr. Zustiak — pulled him aside to ask him about his family.

You probably already know that any great counselor will wield this magical ability to attract our emotional dumps, vomiting and venting. We see them and all our guts fall out our mouths. We see them and, like Usher, tell them part two of our confessions.

My professor friend did that then at Dr. Zustiak’s prodding. He began to vent about how worried he was at the prospect of becoming a bad parent. The irony? He was becoming a mediocre parent in his quest to become a perfect parent.

And then the good doctor grabbed my friend by the shoulders in front of me and said, “Bro: kids don’t need perfect parents. They just need parents. Decent parents who are there consistently. That’s all.”

That doctor was the same one who taught me the number one contributor to healthy families is a consistent, shared, home cooked meal. It’s a sort of home base for kids and for communication and for unifying the tribe. Consistency — not perfect parents, just parents. Parents who are there. Studies with broad sample sizes and diverse demographics have shown that a consistent, shared meal — dinner or lunch or breakfast — once a day will drastically decrease the rates of divorce, teen suicide, and a number of other metrics that can arguably gauge family health.

Consistency.

Not perfect parents, just present parents.

Novels like babies ?

They say writing a novel is like having a baby. If that’s true, if we accept the “novels like babies” metaphor, it makes you a parent. And some of you are so neurotic with your process, so worrisome over your wordcount, so meticulous with your language at this stage in the game that you’ve perfecting your path to mediocrity. You’re pushing your novel towards success and integrity at the expense of joy.  Maybe you’re two or six novels deep and you’re slowing down from your former pace. Why can’t you write as fast as when you first began? Maybe you’re in the middle of your first one and have hit your first professional hurdle. Why have you slowed down?

Let me be as frank as Dr. Zustiak:

Novels don’t need perfect authors. They just need authors. Authors who are there consistently. That’s all. I would bet that if we did a similar statistical study, the “healthiest” authorial careers we know — the ones we respect the most — have a consistent output. That might be a 90,000-word book every year like Jim Butcher or a 400,000-word behemoth every four years like Dostoevsky, but the consistency shows up. Neil Gaiman got stuck once while writing Coraline in the midst of his very busy publishing schedule and he asked Stephen King what to do.

You know what King said?

Three hundred words a day every day for a year, minus one day off every week and thirteen days of vacation time, is still a 90,000-word novel by the end of the year.

Gaiman took the advice, devoted just 300 words a day to Coraline in the midst of all of his other work and the rest is history, film deal and all.

Some of you will fret over the 1,667 word pace of Nanowrimo. Others of you will obsess over your language so much that you’ll end up like James Joyce who allegedly told his servant:

“Thomas, it’s awful. I’ve only written six words today!”

“But Sir, that’s great for you,” Thomas said.

“No it’s not,” Joyce said, “I don’t know their order.”

Apocryphal? Perhaps, but it illustrates the point: are you perfecting your way into mediocrity? Because I can tell you consistent output is far better one way or another — either more words and therefore more manuscripts (reformatted in Shunn manuscript format) or more revision and therefore a more distilled vision of that one great work you hope to leave the world. A page or two, in other words.

My favorite Latin aphorism goes like this:

The water makes a hole in the stone not by force, but by often falling.

So here’s my challenge to you. Try it for a year. Try to treat your novels like babies. Try to write three-hundred words or revise six-hundred words every day from now until next year. Mark today’s date on next years calendar. Go ahead, we’ll be here when you get back.

Did you do it?

Okay, good. Now give yourself one day off every week and thirteen days of vacation time. Every other day, just show up and give the universe at least a page or two.

Sure, it might not be the next American Gods, but it may well result in the next Coraline.

Looking at the careers of the authors we all respect, we can assume you will not build a career as a novelist through the blunt force of a writing retreat, marathon Saturday sessions, or rolling dice waiting to write until the muse strikes you with inspiration while you’re mowing the lawn. If you only write when it’s convenient for a marathon or only write from inspiration, you’re missing out on the true potential fruit of your labor. Me? I only write when I’m inspired every morning at 9am sharp.

The author pens a shelf of novels not by force, but by often writing.

cover image by Jesse van Kalmthout