Meal planning for writers
How I Finished My Book, Part 3
Note: This newsletter issue acknowledges the existence of calories and macros. It does not refer to specific numbers thereof. Take care.
In 2023, Melanie Lynskey did one of those addictive day-in-my-life interviews with The Los Angeles Times. Every morning, she said, she eats a piece of toast smeared with Marmite for breakfast. And every day, a few hours later, “I start saying that I have COVID. I’m sure of it. Something’s wrong. I feel terrible. I feel faint.” And then, every day, “somebody will say to me, ‘Have you tried eating something?’ And then I eat something and it’s like, ‘Oh, right.’”
This is, as they say, relatable content, at least to me. I’m lucky to not have a particularly problematic diet history for a woman who was 14 in the year 2000, and I’m truly blessed to have spent my adult life in a country that isn’t afraid of food. And yet, it was only very recently, and only thanks to my book sprint, that I managed to make the connection between “eating” and “energy.” Did you all know that if you want to have more energy, you have to eat more? Until four months ago, I did not.
For as long as I can remember, if I did something physically taxing—a hike, a bike ride, strength training, a long day of city walking—I would revel in eating an enormous meal afterward. But until this summer, when I was reaching for my cognitive and creative limits every day, it never, ever, ever, ever occurred to me to eat a lot before the difficult activity. I always ate something; I have never “forgotten” a meal in my life. But I didn’t think about eating as a way to prepare for exertion, in addition to a way to recover from it. And I didn’t think cognitive effort factored into the equation at all.
Oh, how wrong I was. Writing—even thinking—as much as I did in these last months requires a huge amount of energy. And the only sustainable way to generate that energy is consistently eating enough food. I thought I had already learned to eat a lot because of lifting, and still, by the end of my schedule’s first writing chunk, I was light-headed, unmotivated, and unable to focus. Like Lynskey, I was confused about why every day. And then I would eat a bowl of oatmeal, and I would remember.
I’ve never been much of a snacker, by natural disposition. Before this summer’s one-two punch of lifting and writing, I comfortably subsisted on Mexican meals alone: big breakfast around 8 a.m., huge lunch at 2 p.m., smaller dinner around 8 p.m. I love a big meal, and I love not having to think about eating again until the next one. But to eat the amount of food I needed to finish my book, well, the meals would have had to be unpleasantly large, even for me. And so I have learned to embrace The Snacks. And more importantly for writing, The Carbs. Did you know your brain will simply refuse to work without carbs? I learned that one the hard way, over and over again.
Now, in addition to my Mexican meals, I have extremely substantial snacks at 11 a.m. and 5 p.m. If life gets in the way of eating the exact same foods at the exact same time (my preferred lifestyle), I eat something else at a different time, or I add the missed snack to one of my meals. I no longer tell myself I can get by without the snack, just as I wouldn’t expect to get by without a meal.
Is it annoying to have to stop whatever I’m doing to eat every three hours? Yes. Every day I genuinely think there’s no way I can stop, that I’m about to have a crucial thought, that I just need to get to the end of this paragraph. I’m doing it right now. But of course, more often than not, I have the crucial thought because I’ve gotten up for a break. I have the crucial thought because I stopped and ate the carbs.
I do not let myself settle for the equivalent of a single piece of Marmite toast anymore. I spent years running on fumes without even knowing it, and without ever imagining how much I was I missing. I’m no longer willing to pay the price of not having enough energy to do my best work, or live my best life. I’m ready to eat.