Girls on the Page

Congratulations on the release of Slowing! How does it feel to have it out in the world? 

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RACHEL SCHWARTZMANN

Thank you so much! I’m writing to you in late October, and it still really hasn’t hit me in some ways… but then I’ll pop into my local bookstore and sign a copy and think, Oh, that’s mine. 

So, if I had to sum it up, I feel incredibly grateful. People have shared their favorite passages and how Slowing has helped them through difficult times. I’ve received these messages from all over the world: Australia, Belgium, Brazil, Mexico, New Zealand—the list goes on. As a reader myself, it’s a gift to have such generous readers of my own.

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In a recent interview with ELLE you mention that Slowing was initially supposed to be a collection of interviews—the essays came later. I’d love to hear more about what the process of dreaming up and mapping out the book was like. How did you decide upon including the timestamps and essays?​

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In truth, I had always wanted to include more of my voice in Slowing but didn’t know if I felt ready to step into my identity as a writer. I mention this in both the book and, more recently, in an essay I published in Literary Hub, but writing, in many ways, is my slowest story. Professionally, I had a winding path to Slowing—I feel that I really became a writer in tandem with getting this project off the ground, which made for an immersive experience.

 

I’m grateful to those who recognized my potential—a lot of editorial feedback I got while the book was on submission was to include more of my voice. My editor at Chronicle Books particularly encouraged that. As the process unfolded, we both didn’t realize just how personal Slowing would lean but ultimately felt it would resonate more (especially when exploring themes like slowing down, which can sometimes venture into prescriptive territory).

 

The structure was always the same, though: In the vein of slow storytelling and time, I wanted to unpack what beginnings, middles, and endings looked and felt like—and potentially reimagine what those chapters could be. (Every day, story, life has them!) Whether the explorations were coming from me or my interviewees, those three anchors felt like the right way to organize the stories. (The correlating prompts in each section were a way for readers to reflect on these themes as well.)

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I also love that you called out the Timestamps (one of these stories is in each section of the book for those who haven’t read Slowing yet). Something I’ve learned about myself as a writer is that I really like to play with aesthetics and structures. The timestamps, in particular, felt like an homage to the original roots of Slow Stories’ podcast, which explores living, working, and creating more intentionally (in our digital age). Beyond my own work, I think it applies to how we collectively reflect and write in this landscape: small bursts of inspiration come to us on the go or in unexpected places; we can tell entire life stories in our Notes App or social feeds.

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You write about your earlier years in San Francisco and Vallejo, a suburb outside of Dallas, and Queens. What is your relationship to these locations now—do you find yourself longing for them, is there one place that you feel shaped you more than the others? To what extent do your surroundings affect or influence your creativity? 

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I don’t have a strong pull to California and Texas, but I do think about them occasionally. Mostly, I long for the many chapters I’ve had in New York (next February will mark my 20th anniversary in the city). That said, I often reflect on my teenage years, a tumultuous but rich period of my life: I studied dance at a performing arts high school. I took art classes, went to shows and concerts. I had beautiful friendships that were inherently creative. While things at home were not the best, I cherish that time deeply and am so lucky to have spent such formative years in Queens. I had unbelievable access to cultural institutions and resources, which were instrumental in shaping my appreciation for the arts. So naturally, environment is hugely integral to my creativity. 

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For instance, when studying dance, I loved taking open classes at places like Steps on Broadway (a true sensorial haven!) more than performing on any stage. When interviewing creatives, I love visiting their studios—examining fabric swatches and intricate mood boards, watching light cast shadows on their work, and seeing sculptures, clothing, or paintings come to life in real time. Without knowing it, creative environments have also taught me so much about intentionality. It wasn’t until I slowed my pace and output that I could appreciate how special and generative these places are.

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There’s an essay in Slowing called “A Living Archive: On Taking Stock” and in it you write, “My childhood rooms were sensory dreams, but as I grew up my self-expression moved online.” 

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When did you first feel comfortable with the idea of an audience and how did you decide that you were ready to share your work online? 

 

I grew up online, as many of us did, so the digital space has been both a place of familiarity, opportunity, and, in recent years, tension. But rather than thinking of an audience, I really have thought of this space for connection—and creativity. When it comes to writing, I have probably prematurely shared work online, but as I mentioned in my recent story, “Spine” (which is about fear and creative courage), I’ve never let fear or discomfort stop me from trying to make things. The internet is a canvas in some ways, and I can always change the medium if needed.  

“I grew up online, as many of us did, so the digital space has been both a place of familiarity, opportunity, and, in recent years, tension. But rather than thinking of an audience, I really have thought of this space for connection—and creativity." 

 

—RACHEL SCHWARTZMANN

As a first-time author, what surprised you most about the publishing process?

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Oh, so many things! I was lucky to have a strong handle on the marketing/PR side of things from my first life as a business owner (in the fashion/content/marketing space), which I’ve heard other authors express surprise (and, at times, dismay) over. I think what surprised me most about this book, in particular, was the design process. It was really educational.

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From “Dawn: On Beginnings”: “I’ve come to understand that a beginning is the most private moment we can have. It’s a feeling, a hope, a gift”. 

What new beginning have you found joy in recently, what are you looking forward to?

 

Tangibly, the beginning of winter. It’s probably my second favorite season (after autumn), and I look forward to continuing to indulge in seasonal splendor.

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Regarding what I’m looking forward to creatively: I’ve mentioned this before, but the circumstances while writing Slowing were not what I expected. I was navigating a mental health crisis, and I’ve been reflecting on what this book would have looked like and felt like had I not endured those challenges. I don’t necessarily wish things had been different—because ultimately, I can’t change it, and the conditions made Slowing what it was—but it’s just interesting to think about.

 

So, as I look to my next (book) project, I’m eager to cultivate a creative practice with a calmer state of mind. Anxiety will always be a part of my life and story, but right now, I have a better handle on it day to day. I’m hopeful this will open up space to move differently through the work and, in turn, let myself be moved in new ways.