"I'm a fast writer"
About this Quote
Spoken by a novelist whose work moves with energy and conversational snap, the line sounds like both a confession and a craft principle. Terry McMillan built a career on stories that feel as if they are being told to you across a kitchen table: warm, funny, blunt, and alive with momentum. Saying she is a fast writer signals a commitment to capturing that immediacy before it evaporates. Speed, here, is a method for bottling voice.
Her books, from Mama to Waiting to Exhale and How Stella Got Her Groove Back, thrive on dialogue and the flow of thought, the way a friend narrates a hard day or a sudden crush. A brisk drafting pace lets her follow the current of a character’s voice without overpolishing the raw edges that make it sound true. It suggests confidence in instinct, a practiced ear for cadence, and a willingness to let the story sprint ahead and pull the writer with it.
Fast does not have to mean careless. It can mean the groundwork is done elsewhere: years of listening, observing, and stockpiling details; months of thinking through a premise; ruthless revision after the first rush is on the page. McMillan’s long, steady output and her books’ crafted structures imply that speed is concentrated in drafting, not in every phase of the work. The rhythm of her prose—its quick banter, its punch lines, its sudden pivots—benefits from that urgency.
There is also a pragmatic note. McMillan emerged as a bestselling voice while navigating the demands of work, motherhood, and later, the expectations of a wide audience. Writing fast can be a survival skill, a way to honor the heat of a story within real-world constraints and publishing deadlines. The line doubles as encouragement to trust momentum: get it down while it is hot, then shape it. That balance between velocity and care is part of why her novels feel both spontaneous and durable, as if they were told in one breath and then refined to last.
Her books, from Mama to Waiting to Exhale and How Stella Got Her Groove Back, thrive on dialogue and the flow of thought, the way a friend narrates a hard day or a sudden crush. A brisk drafting pace lets her follow the current of a character’s voice without overpolishing the raw edges that make it sound true. It suggests confidence in instinct, a practiced ear for cadence, and a willingness to let the story sprint ahead and pull the writer with it.
Fast does not have to mean careless. It can mean the groundwork is done elsewhere: years of listening, observing, and stockpiling details; months of thinking through a premise; ruthless revision after the first rush is on the page. McMillan’s long, steady output and her books’ crafted structures imply that speed is concentrated in drafting, not in every phase of the work. The rhythm of her prose—its quick banter, its punch lines, its sudden pivots—benefits from that urgency.
There is also a pragmatic note. McMillan emerged as a bestselling voice while navigating the demands of work, motherhood, and later, the expectations of a wide audience. Writing fast can be a survival skill, a way to honor the heat of a story within real-world constraints and publishing deadlines. The line doubles as encouragement to trust momentum: get it down while it is hot, then shape it. That balance between velocity and care is part of why her novels feel both spontaneous and durable, as if they were told in one breath and then refined to last.
Quote Details
| Topic | Writing |
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