Quotes About Process

A work-in-progress generates its own energy field. You, the artist or entrepreneur, are pouring love into the work; you are suffusing it with passion and intention and hope.

Because when we sit down day after day and keep grinding, something mysterious starts to happen. A process is set into motion by which, inevitably and infallibly, heaven comes to our aid. Unseen forces enlist in our cause; serendipity reinforces our purpose.

Do you understand? I hadn't written anything good. It might be years before I would, if I ever did at all. That didn't matter. What counted was that I had, after years of running from it, actually sat down and done my work.

When I sit down to write in the morning, I literally have no expectations for myself or for the day's work. My only goal is to put in three or four hours with my fingers punching the keys. I don't judge myself on quality. I don't hold myself accountable for quantity. The only questions I ask are, Did I show up? Did I try my best?

The most highly cultured mother gives birth sweating and dislocated and cursing like a sailor. That's the place we inhabit as artists and innovators. It's the place we must become comfortable with.

Let the unconscious do its work. Research can become Resistance. We want to work, not prepare to work.

Only one thing matters in this initial draft: get SOMETHING done, however flawed or imperfect.

Ideas come according to their own logic. That logic is not rational. It's not linear. We may get the middle before we get the end. We may get the end before we get the beginning. Be ready for this. Don't resist it.

In writing, "action" means putting words on paper. "Reflection" means evaluating what we have on paper.

No matter what a writer or artist may tell you, they have no clue what they're doing before they do it—and, for the most part, while they're doing it.

Why have I stressed professionalism so heavily in the preceding chapters? Because the most important thing about art is to work. Nothing else matters except sitting down every day and trying.   Why is this so important?   Because when we sit down day after day and keep grinding, something mysterious starts to happen. A process is set into motion by which, inevitably and infallibly, heaven comes to our aid. Unseen forces enlist in our cause; serendipity reinforces our purpose.

I write all day. I have no idea what I'm doing. I have never heard of narrative structure or theme or concept or act 1, act 2, act 3. I work entirely on instinct. I'm writing, as I said, about Burton Lines, about the trucking company. I'm writing about myself.

I type that. I type the whole chapter and the one after that and the one after that. Do I have a plan? Am I taking notes? I'm working mindlessly, like a chimpanzee. I want Hemingway's stuff to sink into me by osmosis.

The American political process with its deep dependence on the need to raise money is a system designed not for the best governance but for the selection of the person who can put up with being humiliated the longest.

It wasn't about finding the right answer; it was about patience and diligence. I surrendered to the process, ascribing the same importance to this work as to anything else I did.

I'm not a process person. I like goals and closure, the arrival instead of the journey itself.

Let's face it, life is trivial, and my guess is that dying imparts very little wisdom on those in process.

Love is a constant process of tuning in, connecting, missing and misreading cues, disconnecting, repairing and finding deeper connection.

There's a fullness of time for things, Lily. You have to know when to prod and when to be quiet, when to let things take their course.

One thing that became clear to me is that images of a divine mother are surprisingly important in the psychological wholeness of women, especially in the process of women taking up residence in their own authority.

There's a fullness of time for things, Lily. You have to know when to prod and when to be quiet, when to let things take their course.

I pressed Yaltha to set a course, but she persisted in her waiting, saying if the pot was tended long enough, the answer would bubble to the surface.

As I painted, deeply buried emotions boiled to the surface.

There was a rhythm to the process. First, a pot of equal parts water and milk was put on the hob. To this, Camellia added a few spoons of Assamese tea, two slices of ginger, and a fistful of fresh lemongrass leaves and mint. After arriving at a gentle boil, a tablespoon of sugar went in, and the brew cooked for five minutes.