"I do not write by any set time schedule. I realize there are many writers who follow a daily regime where they arise at 6:00 a.m., do some sort of exercise, eat breakfast and then sit down and produce words for a three to four hour period"
About this Quote
Donald McKay resists the cult of the clock. He draws a gentle line between his own practice and the ritualized mornings that so often get held up as the gold standard for creative work. The phrasing matters: a "set time schedule" and a "daily regime" suggest a militarized rhythm, as if making art were a drill. Even "produce words" reads like factory output. He knows such routines help many writers, but he refuses to conflate productivity with creativity.
The statement sits inside a long-running argument about process. Craft advice often sanctifies early rising, exercise, breakfast, and a fixed block of composition, a formula that promises reliability and word count. McKay appeals to a different logic, one that trusts the irregular tides of attention. Rather than treating writing as a conveyor belt, he frames it as an organism with seasons: gestation, gathering, quickening, and the burst. The absence of a schedule is not laziness; it is a defense of incubation, daydream, the porous hours when lines take shape beneath the surface.
There is also a quiet generosity in his tone. He does not scold the disciplined; he acknowledges their success and simply opts out. That stance rejects the shame that often shadows artists who do not fit the 6 a.m. myth. It affirms plurality: some minds ignite with routine, others with irregularity; both can be rigorous. His approach still implies work, but of a kind measured less by hours and more by readiness, alertness to language, and the courage to wait until there is something living to say.
The deeper point pushes back against a culture that equates worth with output. Words are not widgets, and forcing them on a schedule can produce pages that are technically filled yet spiritually empty. McKay invites writers to honor their own rhythms, to let curiosity and attention set the metronome, and to judge a day not by duration but by the truth in the lines that finally arrive.
The statement sits inside a long-running argument about process. Craft advice often sanctifies early rising, exercise, breakfast, and a fixed block of composition, a formula that promises reliability and word count. McKay appeals to a different logic, one that trusts the irregular tides of attention. Rather than treating writing as a conveyor belt, he frames it as an organism with seasons: gestation, gathering, quickening, and the burst. The absence of a schedule is not laziness; it is a defense of incubation, daydream, the porous hours when lines take shape beneath the surface.
There is also a quiet generosity in his tone. He does not scold the disciplined; he acknowledges their success and simply opts out. That stance rejects the shame that often shadows artists who do not fit the 6 a.m. myth. It affirms plurality: some minds ignite with routine, others with irregularity; both can be rigorous. His approach still implies work, but of a kind measured less by hours and more by readiness, alertness to language, and the courage to wait until there is something living to say.
The deeper point pushes back against a culture that equates worth with output. Words are not widgets, and forcing them on a schedule can produce pages that are technically filled yet spiritually empty. McKay invites writers to honor their own rhythms, to let curiosity and attention set the metronome, and to judge a day not by duration but by the truth in the lines that finally arrive.
Quote Details
| Topic | Writing |
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