Writing for a living, we rely almost entirely on our brain’s ability to function smoothly. If we’re tired, it doesn’t, and nor if we’re ill. Some people boast of doing their best writing when stressed out and time-poor (or even when drunk) and I don’t believe a single one of them. Nothing good or even coherent comes from my mind when I’m exhausted. And it’s a gruesome and scary thing to lose the ability to write, when everything depends on you writing. Income, food, sense of self. Everything.

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In other jobs, there was adrenalin - Oh, isn’t it wonderful - and I could force my sputtering, faltering brain into action because the tasks at hand were very urgent and quite brief. The radio bulletin had to air, the TV package must be bodged together somehow, otherwise we’d have dead air and that’s the stuff of nightmares. No matter how tired, the deadlines and tension and the countdown to ‘going live’ somehow allow you to just switch on and perform. And before those jobs, the pints had to be pulled or toddlers herded and I couldn’t just give in to sleep briefly, head in hands, the way I do when writing. Working in the pub, I’d power through on a surge of lovely adrenalin and Red Bull, knowing the shift would always end at 1am, come what may. I was permanently exhausted, but I could do the job. Later I found war reporting, which obviously involves a very decent amount of adrenalin, and which I enjoy more than I’m supposed to admit. But when forced to sit still for once and trying to drag coherent, and ideally very good, sentences from the loud babble of my mind, two things become apparent: without the adrenalin, the urgency, the short and achievable tasks, you realise how exhausted you actually are. Then you discover that an exhausted brain - and body - cannot do the deep work you’re asking of it.

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This is undoubtedly a vicious cycle: massive amounts of adrenalin for years will do untold harm to your entire being. Immune system, heart, arteries, muscles. Not to mention the effects on the brain, which are well-documented and range from insomnia and foggy thinking to all-out clinical depression. And, incidentally, you don’t need to be a war reporter to reap these rewards. When I worked on a local newspaper the stress was immense, and the emotional burden no less. The court report you scribbled in shorthand, trying desperately to get every word and detail down at 100 words per minute: it’d better be utterly accurate because now the mother of the accused is at the office door and you’ve ruined her life by writing about her son in the paper which all her friends read. Another awful smash on the notorious A-road, someone’s granny killed and you have to phone the family, hands trembling, feeling like the lowest person alive. Often - after telling you to go away - they do want to talk: about her life and personality, or their anger at the lack of road improvements on that dangerous bend, and again you’d better get absolutely everything right or you just compound the grief of these people who are in such pain. Then you’ll be up till the wee hours subbing and laying out the paper and praying that the morning doesn’t bring angry visitors at reception or legal threats from the company you’re investigating. Conflict is everywhere.

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It’s certainly not just journalism that’s characterised by this relentless pace and chronic stress, and no doubt people from all walks of life find it hard to wean themselves off the adrenalin and attempt to do something requiring creativity and immersion. Switching into deep-thinking, deep-writing mode feels almost impossible for a lot of people I know. But this work is also the most satisfying and rewarding. Everyone dreams of being a writer (don’t they? I always did). Certainly, holding a real copy of my book, or meeting someone who’s read and even enjoyed it, feels like a high point in life. So, the unavoidable conclusion is that we must rest, if only in order to write.

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Easier said than done? On a podcast I heard an American woman say something so entirely American that my immediate response was to roll my eyes. But then I pondered. And then I agreed with her. ‘Money’, she’d said, firmly. ‘Money is the one thing that will help you get better’. It was a show about ill-health and burnout. The question was ‘What really helps someone get back on their feet?’ And look, you could be nice and dutiful and answer ‘love’. But she’s right: it’s money. If we’re trying to recover, to really rest and recuperate from something, there must be enough money to do so, even just for the practical side of things. But also because worrying about money is a gnawing, grinding thing. Anxious adding-up in the supermarket, making mental lists of belongings that could be sold, feeling miserly and miserable, feeling that black stone in the stomach that is not just this month’s rent but all the months to come.

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Writers must rest in order to write well, but writers are notoriously poor, especially those without a separate ‘real’ job, or a spouse with one, or family wealth. (The same could be said of journalists now, as the industry shrinks and nepotism replaces merit). So how do you find rest in precarious circumstances? I’m probably the wrong person to ask, writing this as I pack for another demanding trip. But personally, I piece together little snippets of things that feel restoring. When stuck in the greyest city, unable to travel to something green or watery, I find myself fixating on little traces of beauty: birds and their strange ways; a certain quality of light. I go to the sauna, if I can ever find one with real searing heat and blessed silence. But ironically, the one thing that would give me peace and a good night’s sleep is the sheer joy and almost physical satisfaction of having written something beautiful. And so round and round we go. I’m sure I’m not alone in this particular boat, so tell me - how do you carve out time to rest?

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Jen Stout is an award-winning author and journalist from Shetland. Her first book Night Train to Odesa - an account of covering the war in Ukraine as a freelancer - was published in 2024 and was a BBC Radio 4 Book of the Week; it won the Saltire Society First Book award and the Highland Book Prize, and was shortlisted for the RSL Ondaatje prize, and the Sherborne Prize for Travel Writing.

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Most recently she's written for Prospect magazine about Ukrainian POWs being tried for treason, and for the LRB about Kyiv’s harshest winter. Jen grew up in Shetland and studied Sociology and Russian in Edinburgh, where she now lives. 

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