How I created a soft writing practice as a neurodivergent writer
By Maia Nikitina
A writing practice, simply put, is showing up on the page. That’s it. The rest is unique to you, the writer. As a neurodivergent writer, I spent years forcing myself to follow the rules that only work for neurotypical brains – if at all. I tried and failed, and tried again and failed again, to create a writing practice that would look like the ones I was being sold as the only way. It was only when I realised that I was neurodivergent that suddenly everything made sense, including my writing practice.
I began my writing career as a journalist in Russia. It was the ’90s, and the rules of networking and building connections were different. To start with, there was no email, and the internet was still in its infancy, so to get your foot in the door, you had to turn up at an editor’s office and inform them of your intention to write for them. If you already had a piece to give them, your chances were higher. If you didn’t, they told you to go and write something and to bring it back. If they liked it, they would start assigning articles to you. As a freelancer and a journalism student, I wrote whenever I wanted to, usually in the middle of the night, and about the topics I found interesting. There was no talk of a writing practice, only of writing and getting published.
But that was journalism. Once I began to write creatively, things changed. I was doing an MA then an MFA in creative writing in the UK, and suddenly everyone had to have a writing practice. You had to write every day. You had to make it an important part of your life, a ritual that no one could disturb. And yet, if you were a parent, as I was by then, you somehow also had to learn to fit it in around your kids. We read interviews with famous writers, and they all seemed to say the same thing: wake up and write. If you have a job, write before it. If you have kids, write before they get up. If you go to bed late, it has to be because you are writing, or talking about books and writing, and then make sure you are up at the crack of dawn, writing. If you didn’t have this specific writing practice, you weren’t a real writer. We were never told this, but it was implied.
Of course, most of these writers were male and had someone else – usually their wives – to look after the more prosaic parts of life.
Even without adding neurodivergence to the mix, this advice can be detrimental to a writer. We all have lives outside of writing; most of us work and some of us have other people to be responsible for, or health issues, or a lack of space, or a hundred other things that make this type of writing practice untenable.
If you’re neurodivergent, things get more complicated. You might have executive dysfunction that prevents you from writing at the same time every day. You might suffer from burnout, making it hard to get through the day. You might find that writing at a desk is impossible for you, and that you are someone who writes best when walking your dog.
As an autistic person who also has ADHD and PDA (pathological demand avoidance), I am full of contrasts – some would call them contradictions. I like order and predictability but I am also impulsive and crave excitement. I have a soundtrack for each of my stories but I need to write in complete silence. I love rules and structure but the second I decide on them, I immediately feel the pressure of the demand I have just created, and I escape.
I know this about myself now, but back then, I blamed myself for not being able to maintain that “perfect” writing practice, the kind my tutors touted as the sign of a great writer, and those feelings began to seep into my writing.
All the things that I now understand are the parts of me that make me the person and the writer I am, made it difficult for me to fit into that mould. I start stories and sometimes I don’t finish them for months or even years. I don’t write every day. I don’t even write at the same time each time. I don’t plot. I don’t write first thing in the morning. I don’t have a desk – in fact, I prefer to write in bed or while walking, on my phone. I am not consistent. I don’t do a little every day. I don’t write to a specific word count.
My unfinished stories often merge into one, creating interesting contrasts. Sometimes they germinate for years and then come out perfectly formed. I wrote at least a third of my first novel on my phone, and the rest in bed. My lack of routine can frustrate me at times, but it also allows me to follow my instincts and keeps my writing fresh. The days or weeks I don’t write help me make sense of what I’m trying to say, so that when I do get back to the page, I have more clarity and direction.
Turns out, I’ve always had a practice that worked perfectly for me, but I had dismissed it for years, thinking that it wasn’t right just because it didn’t look like the practice those other writers had.
Many writers I work with are neurodivergent too, and have gone through a similar challenge with their own writing practice. When we start working together, I often give them these tips to help dismantle the harmful ideas of a “perfect” writing practice, and to build a soft practice that works for them.
Self-allowing
Capitalism and a goal of productivity have changed our society to the point where many struggle to imagine a life outside of these margins. And yet, modern capitalism appeared not so long ago – in the early 19th century. For thousands of years before that, humans lived and created without the constant pressure of the end result.
To begin your soft practice, I invite you to dismantle any productivity-based structures that exist in your mind and your life when it comes to your creativity. This self-allowing is powerful because once you change the rules from productivity to enjoyment, many pressures fall off on their own. Do you feel bad you didn’t write 10k words this week? Change the rules from productivity to enjoyment. Do you worry you haven’t published enough books or stories? Change the rules from productivity to enjoyment. Whenever you feel pressure related to your creative process, examine if the rules need to be changed from productivity to enjoyment.
Rediscovering playfulness
Playfulness in writing can seem hard to achieve, precisely because, as a society, we have eliminated playfulness from our lives. Playful writing doesn’t mean comedic or funny writing. Many writers we consider as “serious” have a high degree of playfulness in their work. Think of Hilary Mantel or Vladimir Nabokov or Paul Auster or Joyce Carol Oates, to name just a few.
So let’s play a game. You have landed on a desert island and have found everything you need for survival and even a pleasant stay – apart from any kind of entertainment. There are no books, no TV, no phones or computers. You’re safe but you’re bored. And then you discover a cave full of art materials. There’s anything you could ever imagine a creative person would want. You could paint, write, make sculptures, knit, dance, sing. There is no one to judge your creations, no rules to follow apart from one: you can only spend one hour per day or less making art. When the hour is up, the cave ejects you from its depths and won’t allow you back in until the next day. For the next 30 days, allow yourself to go into the cave and create whatever you like for up to one hour. On the days you don’t feel like it, you just won’t go. You will create anything you like in any art form. Remember, this is simply for your entertainment. You’re on a desert island and no one knows if you will ever leave it – so there is no audience.
What could this art cave be in real life? Anything that allows you to be playful and to create without an audience in mind other than yourself. You are creating for your own entertainment. You are your own book, movie, play, painting. You are making art for the sole purpose of pleasing yourself and no one else. On the days that you don’t feel like creating, don’t do it. Rest, have fun, do whatever you like. It’s all good. Playfulness is a state of being. You can’t and shouldn’t force it. Invite it in gently, by allowing yourself to create the way children do – less for the result and more for the process.
Writing your own rule book
Write down some new rules for yourself this week. They can be traditional and very rule-y but I invite you to make your rules UNruly instead. Breaking the rules can feel amazing for those of us with ADHD or PDA, for example, but sometimes scary or uncomfortable for those of us who are autistic. And if you have a whole mixture of various neuro-differences, you could have a very complicated relationship with rules. So I invite you to create your own safe space to explore this within the framework of your writing practice. What rules would support you? Inspire you? Provide you with a safe place to create?
My first memory of writing is this:
I’m four or five years old; it is autumn and I’m bored during compulsory nap time at the kindergarten. Everyone is asleep, apart from me and a nursery teacher who sits by the door, lost in thought. I write a song about maple leaves and I hum it in my mind so as not to get caught. I am a kid who refuses to sleep when the rules say so. I’m a kid who writes poetry about autumn leaves and whispers it quietly, joyfully.
For the next week or two, try out your rules and tweak them until they fit you. Keep changing the rules if you like. Or stick to the same ones. Or throw out all the rulebooks, including your own. It’s your writing practice – you can do what you like. You create your practice by showing up on the page. The rest is up to you. When, how often, for how long.
Merging your writing practice with your wellbeing
Creativity is important to our wellbeing as humans. But for neurodivergent creatives, it is absolutely essential to think of our creative expression as part of our wellbeing framework.
But first, let’s dismantle some of the ideas of what wellbeing can mean. When I talk about wellbeing, I exclude anything that brings us any feelings of pressure, guilt, shame or self-hatred. In the same way that a “perfect” writing practice is forced on many writers, the “perfect” wellbeing ideas are often forced on us by the society. For this exercise, think of wellbeing only as a structure that allows you to feel happy, joyful, relaxed and comfortable. Often, this will be the opposite of what we have been taught.
Write down your current wellbeing practice. Where within that framework can you include your writing practice? Don’t limit yourself with daily targets or word count. Instead, try to incorporate writing in a way that allows for flexibility and softness.
Meet Maia!
Maia Nikitina is a writer, developmental editor, and book coach for neurodivergent creatives. Her work has appeared in Necessary Fiction and Manzano Mountain Review, among others, and her fiction was longlisted for the Bath Novel Award and highly commended twice for the Manchester Fiction Prize. She lives in Manchester, UK.
Maia works with writers at various stages of their book journeys, helping them overcome writing block, polish their books and get their work out into the world. She loves to work on non-fiction (business, self-help, CNF, memoir), literary and upmarket fiction, and neurodivergent and LGBTQIA+ themes. She works both with authors seeking traditional publication and self-publishing routes.
Connect with Maia on Instagram, TikTok, LinkedIn and Twitter.