To be a novelist is to live in a world of external and self-imposed deadlines, whether you’re under the gun with a seven-figure contract like Taylor Jenkins Reid or stabbing out your first attempt on a commute to the city.

Deadlines are the difference between a published work and one that hides half-finished under the bed. They are what get the job done, so you better find a way to love them.

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Though I’m fifteen novels into this absurd passion, I won’t claim to be an expert novelist, but I am an expert on deadlines because I’ve been making a living under highly demanding conditions for ten years now, writing at least one lengthy book a year—sometimes two when my Icarus Complex kicks in.

Allow me to share how my relationship with them has evolved, as you might learn something from my agony. Please let me save you heartache.

In the year COVID arrived, I was working on a novel called The Singing Trees, which wound up being my most successful book to date, selling hundreds of thousands of copies. Getting there, however, was…not pretty.

A few challenges stood in my way that year, in addition to what COVID had brought to all our lives. The Singing Trees was my sophomore effort for my new publisher, Lake Union. I’d nailed the previous book, An Unfinished Story, so I felt serious pressure to outdo it and prove that I was unstoppable. In addition, my wife, young son, and I were obtaining visas to move to Spain, and I was about to leave my day job to write full time.

In other words, I’d better not screw up.

The toughest part of The Singing Trees was attempting to tackle almost more than I could handle (my first historical fiction, first dual timeline, a female point of view, etc.) in a tight nine-month window. I narrowly made my first deadline, submitting the manuscript for a developmental edit by fellow Writer Unboxed contributor, the magnificent Tiffany Yates Martin. “I’m lost,” I said to her. “I know there are good pieces here, but the propulsive throughline is missing. Should I toss this thing out and go to med school?”

She gave me multiple therapy sessions (dev editors are also psychotherapists) and ultimately, saved the day, helping me see what had been right in front of my face. Apropos the nearly impossible timeline in which I was supposed to rescue my heap of litdung, she tried to suggest I ask for an extension. I didn’t listen.

Being new to the publisher, I didn’t want to be late. More importantly, I’d designed a beautifully liberating October day as the time I turned my book in, left my day job, and began again overseas. Therefore, I’d do whatever it took to stay on track.

The pressure, coupled with my devotion, catapulted me into the heart of the story; the fictional world became my reality. I wasn’t sure if I was Boo or Annalisa, the protagonist in my WIP. I heard her voice in my head, felt her fingers when I typed. Thankfully, my supportive family cheered me on, let me hide in my office, and delivered meals like I was in prison. One day, in a caffeine-induced frenzy, I wrote eight-thousand words. That, my friends, is a big day, and no way could I have done it without a deadline.

Let’s be clear, though. Yes, I was often able to tap deep into my creativity, and the book resonated with readers, but I had to wade through a swamp of fear to get there. What if my instincts under duress fail me? What if this novel doesn’t sell like the last? What if I don’t have what it takes to create at my best under deadline?

Unaware that I could have made the process far easier on myself, I was over-caffeinated, detached from the real world, and fully embracing the tortured-artist cliché. As you can imagine, I wasn’t easy to live with and didn’t take care of my body or mind. COVID was happening all around me, but I was completely out of touch.

And my arms started hurting. Like, no kidding, serious pain in my forearms when I typed. That scared the shit out of me, especially considering this was my new gig, the one that would pay our bills. If you follow me, you know I’d already lost my first career as a musician due to a hand issue, so I knew exactly the emotional toll. With a few weeks left to Liberation Day, I was barely sleeping, the story running through me at all hours, and I was popping Advil multiple times daily to cool the pain so that I could keep mashing keys.

Guess what. I survived the deadline. Barely.

But even as our plane to Europe climbed through the clouds, I knew I had to make big changes. That nightmare wasn’t sustainable. I couldn’t put myself or my family through that again. I couldn’t keep hitting pause on my real life every time a deadline appeared on the horizon.

Spain was the first to rescue me. We Americans can be guilty of letting our work define us. Most Spaniards aren’t like that. They work to live, not the other way around. Hanging around new Spanish friends, and even the expats who’d adapted this more laidback mindset, I realized I was taking myself too seriously.

Yes, writing means everything to me. I write because I have no choice. Art is my salvation. But dear God, Boo, there’s more to life than words! And your literary output doesn’t define you. You’ll be okay even if a typo, a passive sentence, an error, or a plot hole sneaks into a published book for all the world to see. Please, no! Or if your book doesn’t hit the top one hundred, or if everyone hates it. Even if I didn’t write a thing, or if I never had a bestseller, or never hit a deadline, I’d still be okay. The earth would keep spinning.

Spain gave me the wonderful gift of not caring as much, allowing me to detach from the worry of missing a deadline—and the outcome of the book, in general. Writing had to be fun, or what was the point?

Then a guru named Ruth Chiles entered my life. Spain softened me; Ruth transformed me. Now living in Valencia, I was in the early stages of working on A Spanish Sunrise, my third book for Lake Union, and I was determined to tackle, no, dance with it more gracefully. I shared the details of my often horrific experience, including the arm pain, and admitted I was terrified of losing this career that meant everything to me.

Ruth helped me reframe the idea of deadlines. We acknowledged the intensity and intimidating nature of the word itself: DEADLINE. It implies that you will reach a point in your creative endeavor where you will die, where monsters wait to sever your head.

Will deadlines actually kill you? No. What happens if you don’t hit one? You might beat yourself up. Your publisher might label you as a problem author. They might push back your pub date. But no author, to my knowledge, ever died by missing a deadline.

Ruth suggested we use a racing analogy and call them pit stops instead of deadlines. You don’t perish when you take a pit stop. You’re simply stopping for fuel, new tires, and a few repairs. Often, a deadline means there are people waiting for you. They’re not monsters with swords who will berate you for your inadequacies. Like Tiffany, they’re professional editors, agents, publishers, and early readers who are invested in you and want your book to be better.

My goodness, that concept was a revelation, and to this day, I still cling to it. I can’t wait to hit a deadline because I know that the team around me is waiting to do whatever it takes to send me back on the track anew.

I mentioned that I had become absorbed into my fictional world during The Singing Trees. That can be wonderful. I mean, not for my family, because my ADHD is on fire, but when you’re under deadline in healthy terms, you have an unstoppable momentum. You wake each day with itchy typing fingers, motivated to stay on track, despite distractions. It’s in this state of flow where the storytelling juju happens.

Also, having a deadline pushes you when you’re running on empty. Yesterday was the most important deadline of my WIP, my response to the first round of edits. Sadly, I still didn’t have the ending right. I hacked away all morning, desperate to fire off the book to my new editor so I could enjoy a couple of weeks off, but the right words were stuck somewhere in my head.

I fixed a severed irrigation pipe in the yard, then went at it again. Nada. I had lunch, took a long walk, then tried again and failed. I’d shake loose those words if it took me all night. An hour before we had to leave for my son’s dance class, I made tea and once again tried to tap in. Finally, flow! What a magical exchange, a breaking of bread with the universe. The words had simply been waiting to see how badly I really wanted them. Ah, the loving push of deadlines!

You know that song “Purple Hat” by Sofi Tukker? “People dancing on the people, I got people on the people, with the people on the people.” I now make up my own deadlines and have deadlines for the deadlines on the deadlines.

I use a Pomodoro timer to stack a series of twenty-five-minute, uninterrupted sprints into my morning. And I don’t quit for the day till I hit a certain word count. For me, that’s usually around three thousand words. These daily practices are essentially micro-deadlines. It should be said that I don’t beat myself up if I don’t achieve those goals. Sometimes, the bird don’t sing.

Beta readers are a wonderful opportunity to ramp up pressure. I have twenty-one seasoned readers right now. I break them up into groups and notify them weeks in advance which day they’ll see a version of my working manuscript. They’re amazing cheerleaders and always eager to see what I’m working on, so I push hard and stay at it extra-long each day to deliver the best manuscript I can.

Being pushed also keeps you from overthinking. Guess what: your words and sentences and stories will never be perfect. A deadline will force your analytical mind to take a much-needed time out, so that you can have some fun and get something on the page. Who cares if it’s rubbish!

For this last book, I came up with a fun idea to help me reach “The End” before my first deadline. I shared the details with my readers, told them I had to write 3-4k words a day for three weeks. Then I gave updates along the way. Not because I enjoy self-flagellation, but because adding friendly pressure can bring out the best.

My arm pain went away within weeks of moving to Spain and meeting Ruth, and though a few deadlines still rattle me, I’m far more comfortable with them. They don’t need to be scary. They’re lovely, cuddly puppies waiting to greet you when you get home. They’re the fuel you need to keep going when you’d rather binge The Morning Show and eat popcorn.

And don’t forget the celebrations. What’s better than hitting a deadline, then whipping up a charcuterie board and pulling the cork on your favorite bottle of wine? The more deadlines the better, come to think of it.

Ultimately, pit stops achieve what Steven Pressfield insists in The War of Art is the most important part of being a writer: getting your butt in the chair.

(This article was originally published on Writer Unboxed, where I am a regular contributor.)

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