A certain type of writer quietly infuriates other writers. They hold off. They browse. They brew one cup of coffee, then another. With the exception of writing, they do everything. They then sit down and create something truly excellent about four hours prior to the deadline. Not usable. Not acceptable. Really good. It occurs frequently enough that it cannot be written off as chance and should be taken seriously.
It is not as mysterious as it first appears in terms of psychology. More than a century ago, psychologists Robert Yerkes and John Dodson discovered what is now known as the arousal-performance curve—the notion that performance improves as mental arousal rises, but only to a certain extent. When there is insufficient pressure, the mind can stray and consider various options without making a commitment to any of them. If you use too much, it will shut down. A certain level of focused clarity is possible in the middle zone, where a deadline is near enough to feel real but not so close as to induce panic. Whether they realize it or not, writers who perform well under duress are operating within that window.
Practically speaking, pressure eliminates the possibility of perfectionism. It turns out that one of the more dependable methods of producing mediocre writing is perfectionism. If given an unlimited amount of time, a writer can work on a single sentence for an hour, making changes, reconsidering, and eliminating the version they liked three drafts ago. The more time you spend listening to your inner critic—which is always there but never particularly helpful—the louder it becomes. A deadline ends the discussion. There is no time to debate whether or not the first paragraph ought to be more poetic. You have time to write it and move on. Oddly, the paragraph that results from that haste is frequently superior to anything created with careful thought because it is sharper, more instinctive, and less processed.
Beneath the surface, something important is also taking place. The brain’s propensity to continue working on a problem even after the conscious mind has moved on to other things is known as incubation, according to psychologists. Even if they aren’t actively drafting, a writer who has been living with a story or an argument for weeks has been thinking about it the entire time. They’re not starting from scratch when the deadline finally compels them to sit down and write. They are using a storehouse of accumulated ideas that are now accessible due to the pressure. In the moment, the connections seem coincidental. Typically, they are not.
Screenwriter Erika Rasso, who wrote candidly about her personal experience with deadline-driven work, talked about finishing ten pages of a comedy script hours before a table read after weeks of trying to come up with anything workable. The pages landed smoothly. The next week, she gave it another go, purposefully waiting until the very last minute, and the outcome was the same. Although she was cautious to note that her experience may not be universal, many writers will be able to relate to it. Sometimes the work completed under pressure has a quality that the meticulously edited version never quite captures.
The change in goal that pressure causes appears to be the most significant factor. Writing something flawless is no longer the aim when time is limited. It’s to write a completed piece. Even though it seems straightforward, this reframing significantly lessens the process’ emotional burden. The question of whether the work will be good enough is often the basis of imposter syndrome, which silently afflicts many writers regardless of their track record. That question is replaced by a more pressing one when there is a tight deadline: will there be anything to turn in at all? It turns out that the second question is much easier to answer than the first.
However, it’s difficult to ignore the fact that this can be overdone. The type of persistent urgency that wears people out over months is not the same as productive pressure. According to writing coach David Farland, prolonged stress actually kills creativity—not in a metaphorical sense, but in a tangible, cognitive one. When it doesn’t let up, the same pressure that sharpens focus during a four-hour sprint turns corrosive.
Through trial and error, some writers have discovered ways to take advantage of it, such as creating fictitious deadlines, writing in timed sprints, and purposefully waiting until the discomfort of not writing finally outweighs the discomfort of writing poorly. When it tips, that final threshold usually yields something genuine. Not always flawless. but genuine. And that’s usually a better place to start.
Alyssa Bennett as editor at vclib.org, oversees editorial coverage of literary criticism, cultural analysis, political commentary. Alyssa brings rigorous research discipline, in-depth knowledge, experience, and an approachable editorial voice to subjects that most readers find thought-provoking and culturally significant. Her career spans the intersection of literary journalism, political writing, and educational publishing.