Some writers work fast. Some writers work slow. Very slow. There’s a lot of pressure in the writing/publishing world to write on at least a book a year pace. There’s pressure from readers, too, as we can see from the way some readers bemoan the length of time they have to wait for George R.R. Martin’s books, for example.

And we unpublished authors don’t escape the pressure, either, as we watch writers we’ve known for years sign book deals and rack up adoring fans. We scramble to squeeze more writing hours into our days, but find ourselves spending less time with the people we love. We skip steps in our writing process, thinking they’re slowing us down, but end up with an inferior product. We cut back on novel reading to give ourselves more time to write, but find ourselves out of touch with the market and uninspired to create our own magic.

Recently, I’ve come to accept the way I work. No two writers work alike, and you have to be true to your own process. When discussing voice and style, we always emphasize the importance of finding your own, a voice and style that is all yours and not an imitation of someone else’s. Why can’t we do that with the writing process? Trying to be more efficient, trying to make your process better, is one thing. Trying to throw out everything that helps you write well just because it’s not “fast enough” is something else.

Chances are that the way you write reflects your personal learning style. I first discovered learning styles while doing research on how to tailor lessons for my kids (who I homeschool), and it completely altered the way I look at myself and how I work. Using myself as an example: I tend to write slow because the story doesn’t reveal itself to me all at once. Writing is very much a layering process for me; I get my ideas on paper, then see connections between them, get those on paper, and see even more connections. It can be very frustrating to realize something that should have been obvious from the beginning. Especially because it triples the amount of time and work I have to do.

But when I learned about the visual-spatial learning style, it suddenly made sense. Unlike auditory-sequential learners, visual-spatial learners don’t think, well, sequentially. Auditory-sequential learners can take an idea or fact and progress easily onto the next logical step. Visual-spatial learners tend to need a bunch of ideas or facts that they can “spread out” in their minds before they can make connections between them.

I have a theory that many slow writers are visual-spatial learners. I’m sure quite a few faster writers have visual-spatial tendencies, too, but that’s not the point. The point is, our writing process is what it is because it’s hard-wired into our brains. Your writing process stems from a vital aspect of what makes you you. For example, if you were an auditory-sequential rather than a visual-spatial (or vice-versa), you wouldn’t be writing this exact story. Your learning process itself would change the way your work unfolds.

So if you write every day and are dedicated to your craft, but still seem to move at a snail’s pace, don’t beat yourself up–this is what I’ve learned. Embrace your process, don’t fight it. For me, my work has gotten better for recognizing it.

Writing through tragedy…I’ve tried to write this post a dozen times. It’s a hard process to write about because it’s a hard thing to do. It’s been said before that writing through personal tragedy can be theraputic, even if you can’t use these pieces for publication. And agents caution against sending them your tragically-inspired but unmarketable manuscripts. I can’t really add anything new to that. What I can offer is my own testimony–one writer’s account of writing through tragedy.

The topic has been on my mind lately because today, my daughter (who was stillborn) would have been one year old. We knew about her severe genetic condition prior to her birth, which in some ways made it easier when the time came, but it also made it a long, drawn-out ordeal. I can’t offer any sage wisdom, only offer up the things I learned along the way. And yes, I found writing theraputic. As writers, it is through the written word that we explore concepts, situations, angles on the world. I think that’s why writing through tragedy has such value for us. I wrote in my journal, I worked on my wip…And any tragedy is going to stir up raw, passionate emotions–the stuff of good fiction. It opens your eyes to deep things you don’t always think about, makes you think of how fragile the world really is. Even if what you’re writing is a different situation than what you’re going through, those dramatic thoughts and feelings can be useful in adding dimension to a book.

In whatever form it takes, I think the ultimate professional benefit of writing through tragedy is to connect with people, even help them, somehow. Plugging raw emotion and contemplative prose into your wip builds a sense of camraderie between reader and writer, even if indirectly. But as I said, writing was theraputic for me as well. In a tragedy, it seems like there’s this almost universal desire to do something, to help somehow, to contribute in some way–especially when the tragedy revolves around your own child. And one way writing was theraputic for me: I wrote my daughter a story. In that terrible time, there wasn’t a lot I had control over, and even though her genetic condition was no fault of my own, a parent always feels like it’s her fault when something is wrong with her children. Writing this story for her was the one thing I knew I could do right. And that feeling of being in control of something helped enormously.

So no, I haven’t reinvented the wheel with this post, but sometimes examples of experiences carry more weight than rote instruction and advice. And as novelists and fiction readers, we’re always on the lookout for a story to connect to in some way. This is mine.