Hemingway's Writing Routine

June 01, 2021 | 3 min read

Ernest Hemingway was a literary talent, but even he found writing a difficult endeavor. Thus, Hemingway adhered to a writing routine.

Writing routines are not one-size-fits-all. Following his writing schedule to a T will not transform you into Hemingway because what worked for his mind will not work for yours. However, learning about his routine may inspire you to experiment with how to fit writing into your life.

 

1. Prioritize consistency.

Your mindset is everything. To Hemingway, writing was something you had to practice just like you would a sport. Especially while you’re still forming a writing habit, set aside a small chunk of time to write and focus on whether you spent the whole time writing rather than the quantity of words you put out.

Showing up is half the battle, and it willget easier.

 

2. Know thyself.

Hemingway woke early to write in the mornings because “there is no one to disturb you.” Of course, if inspiration struck, he would stay longer at his desk.

Do you tend to be more productive at night? During the day? After a nap? If you’re not sure, spend a week experimenting with different writing times and record how you felt about your writing process.

Keep an eye out for patterns.

 

3. Separate your writing life.

Hemingway’s advice to writers is to “always stop when you know what is going to happen next.” When you’ve concluded a writing session, try not to let thoughts about your work consume you.

Your subconscious mind is the source of creativity and works in the background even as you tackle other tasks. When Hemingway felt truly stumped, he would answer letters as a welcome break. Relax and let your subconscious ideate for you.

 

4. Curate your writing environment.

According to Daily Ritualsby Mason Currey, Hemingway “wrote standing up, facing a chest-high bookshelf with a typewriter on the top.” He wrote his first drafts in pencil and tracked his daily word output on a chart.

Make sure your writing environment is separate from, for example, your game room. Keeping a dedicated writing space helps you get into the writing headspace more quickly. Make yourself comfortable, but not too comfortable to write.

 

5. Have faith in yourself.

Recognizing that writer’s block is merely a mental block diminishes its power over you. It’s not some inexplicable, unbeatable force—ultimately, you have the ability to push through.

When Hemingway felt the onset of writer’s block, he “would stand and look out over the roof of Paris and think, ‘Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.’”

 

6. Know when to stop writing.

Writers rarely talk about this step, as most of us struggle enough with just getting started. But Hemingway, who has certainly thought through every step of his writing process, has some words of wisdom:

“The best way is always to stop when you are going good and when you know what will happen next. If you do that every day when you are writing a novel you will never be stuck.”

 

The next time you poise your fingers above the keys, think about your writing process from Hemingway’s perspective. Let us know what you think!

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I’ve spent years writing while secretly fearing that a single misplaced word would expose me — not just as a bad writer, but as a fraud.

My background is originally in photography, and I see it there, too. A photographer I know recently posted a before-and-after comparison of their editing from 2018 versus now, asking if we also saw changes in our own work over the years.

Naturally, we should. If our work is the same, years apart, have we really grown as artists?

So why is that the growing, the process of it, the daily grind of it, is so painful?

So why is that the growing, the process of it, the daily grind of it, is so painful?

The Haunting

Hitting “publish” on an essay or a blog always stirs up insecurity — the overthinking, the over-editing. The fear that someone will call me out for not being a real writer.

I initially hesitated to make writing part of my freelance work. My background is in photography and design. Writing was something I gravitated toward, but I had no degree to validate it. No official stamp of approval.

Like many writers, I started with zero confidence in my voice — agonizing over edits, drowning in research, second-guessing every word.

I even created a shield for myself: ghostwriting.

I even created a shield for myself: ghostwriting.

If my words weren’t my own, they couldn’t be wrong. Ghostwriting meant safety — no risk, no vulnerability, just words without ownership.

I still remember the feeling of scrolling to the bottom of an article I had written and seeing someone else’s name, their face beside words that had once been mine.

The truth is, I always wanted to write. As a kid, I imagined it. Yet, I found myself handing over my work, letting someone else own it.

I told myself it didn’t matter. It was work. Getting paid to write should be enough.

But here’s the thing: I wasn’t just playing it safe — I was slowly erasing myself. Word by word. Edit by edit. And finally, in the by-line.

I wasn’t just playing it safe — I was slowly erasing myself. Word by word. Edit by edit. And finally, in the by-line.

The Disappearing Act

This was true when I was writing under my own name, too. The more I worried about getting it right, the less I sounded like me.

I worried. I worried about how long an essay was (“people will be bored”), finding endless examples as proof of my research (“no way my own opinion is valid on its own”), the title I gave a piece (“it has to be a hook”), or editing out personal touches (“better to be safe than be seen”).

I built a guardrail around my writing, adjusting, tweaking, over-correcting. Advice meant to help only locked me in. It created a sentence rewritten to sound smarter, an opinion softened to sound safer, a paragraph reshaped to sound acceptable.

I built a guardrail around my writing, adjusting, tweaking, over-correcting.

But playing it safe makes the work dull. Writing loses its edge.

It took deliberate effort to break this habit. I’m not perfect, but here’s what I know after a year of intentionally letting my writing sound like me:

My work is clearer. It moves with my own rhythm. It’s less shaped by external influence, by fear, by the constant need to smooth it into something more polished, more likable.

But playing it safe makes the work dull. Writing loses its edge.

The Resurrection

The drive for acceptance is a slippery slope — one we don’t always realize we’re sliding down. It’s present in the small choices that pull us away from artistic integrity: checking how others did it first, tweaking our work to fit a mold, hesitating before saying what we actually mean.

And let’s be honest — this isn’t just about writing. It bleeds into everything.

It’s there when we stay silent in the face of wrongdoing, when we hold back our true way of being, when we choose work that feels “respectable,” whatever that means. It’s in every “yes” we say when we really want to say “no.”

If your self-expression is rooted in a need for acceptance, are you creating for yourself — or for others? Does your work help you explore your thoughts, your life? Does it add depth, energy, and meaning?

My work is clearer. It moves with my own rhythm. It’s less shaped by external influence, by fear, by the constant need to smooth it into something more polished, more likable.

I get it. We’re social creatures. Isolation isn’t the answer. Ignoring societal norms won’t make us better writers. Often, the most meaningful work is born from responding to or resisting those norms.

But knowing yourself well enough to recognize when acceptance is shaping your work brings clarity.

Am I doing this to be part of a community, to build connections, to learn and grow?

Or am I doing this to meet someone else’s expectations, dulling my voice just to fit in?

The Revival

Here’s what I know as I look back at my writing: I’m grateful for the years spent learning, for the times I sought acceptance with curiosity. But I’m in a different phase now.

I know who I am, and those who connect with my work reflect that back at me — in the messages they send, in the conversations we share.

I know who I am, and those who connect with my work reflect that back at me — in the messages they send, in the conversations we share.

It’s our differences that drive growth. I want to nurture these connections, to be challenged by difference, to keep writing in a way that feels like me. The me who isn’t afraid to show what I think and care about.

So, I ask you, as I ask myself now:

If no one was watching, if no one could judge, what would you write?

If no one was watching, if no one could judge, what would you write?

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