Eventually, the relationship started to stabilize and grow stale. It became comfortable and then boring. Soon, the feelings faded, and all that was left was a commitment neither of us wanted to be in.
The problem, though, was we didn’t know how to end it. We felt stuck.
As the relationship fizzled, I grew distant and she stopped showing affection. We found clever and convenient ways to avoid each other. Still, for some reason, we stuck it out. We just couldn’t end it — it was an awful, confusing cycle.
I felt the way a lot of people in broken relationships feel. I felt trapped. We were hanging onto something longer than we should have. But we were scared and didn’t know how to let go of what had become safe and predictable.
Finally, one day, the relationship ended. The final break happened on accident, as all the best ones do. We started talking about the past few months, and before we knew it, we were saying goodbye.
Afterwards, I remember going to the park, lying on a picnic table and breathing a deep sigh of relief. I finally felt free.
Years later, I’m reminded of that experience when I look at my approach to writing.
When You Feel Trapped
It will happen, eventually. You will do something you love, and after awhile, you’ll forget why you started. Whether it’s a relationship, a career, or a calling, you’ll start to feel trapped.
This happens to the best of us. We lose steam and want to break up with our passions. We achieve success, and it doesn’t matter.
Why? Because the reason we started no longer motivates us. We check out and want to move on. We dream of quitting.
What you do next, though, is what forms your character. It’s what determines the course of your life’s work and what makes a legacy. It’s the difference between someone who creates something memorable and meaningful — and someone who just gives up.
When this happens, you’re in a tough place. You start resenting what brought you so much attention in the first place. You may even find yourself longing to reinvent your work.
Musicians experience this. So do marketers. Writers do, as well. But what do you do with it?
If you’ve had any success in your craft, you know what I’m talking about. One day, you write something, and an audience shows up. And this changes
everything
. Because now you have customers — people to impress.
That’s when things start to get tricky.
Every writer experiences this. At some point in your journey, you find yourself writing for the approval of others, not for pure love of the craft. You’re no longer satisfied with your passion, and there’s nothing you can do about it. All these royalty checks, all this blog traffic — you’re
stuck
.
At these times, you’ll want to give up. Throw in the towel. Move to another country, buy a cabin in the mountains, and forget about the world. But this is not the end. It’s only the beginning of another journey.
Whether you’re starting to tackle writing for the first time or a lifelong veteran, rest assured. There is better work you’ve yet to create. If you will make one important choice: Stop writing for accolades, and start writing for passion.
Once I stopped trying to please people, I found an even larger audience. I fell back in love with writing. And it made all the difference.
This took courage, but it was worth it.
A year ago, I never would have imagined I’d be writing words that would be moving thousands of people every day. Now, I can’t imagine living any other way.
The more I love what I do, the more others do, too. This is the paradox: When you stop writing for readers’ affections, your work will affect more people.
But how do you do this? Where do we begin? There are three steps I took. Let’s look at the first.
Becoming a Writer
It took the tough love of a friend to remind me I had a dream. But the pursuit of fame had poisoned that dream. The promise of getting published and paid the big bucks distracted me from doing the real work. The work of writing.
Those words reverberated in my mind:
You are a writer. You just need to write.
So that’s what I did. Not
thinking
about writing or
talking
about it, but actually doing it. Which is the hardest thing in the world for a writer to do.
I would wake up at 5:00 a.m. every morning and write for hours before going to work. When I finished the day, I’d spend another couple hours in the evening. Just writing.
I would write on lunch breaks and when I could grab a spare moment. I’d stay up late and put in weekend hours. Every chance I could get, I was writing.
I didn’t care about anything else. I was euphoric. I was in love.
Maybe you’ve experienced this. Maybe you hope to. Either way, I want to make something clear.
You
are
a writer. You just need to write.
It’s time to kill the excuses and start writing. Time to become a writer again. Not a marketer or an entrepreneur. Not a blogger or businessperson. A writer. A real one.
All of this — this business of becoming a writer — starts not with the hands, but with the head.
Turning Pro
When I started writing, I had all sorts of anxiety. Who was I, pretending to be a writer? How could I possibly call myself one when I hadn’t even written a real book, hadn’t been published or paid for my work?
As I began to pursue my craft, I learned something important. In fact, I’m still learning it.
Writing is mostly a mind game. It’s about tricking yourself into becoming who you are. If you do this long enough, you begin to believe it. And pretty soon, you start acting like it.
When I started writing, titles intimidated me, and I wondered what it would take to “arrive,” to be considered legitimate. I secretly worried I would never feel like a writer, despite what I told myself.
So I asked an expert.
In
The War of Art
, Steven Pressfield explains you have to “turn pro” in your head before you can do it on paper. More important than book deals and hitting the
New York Times
Best Sellers List is this belief in yourself.
In other words, you have to trick yourself, because you
aren’t
a writer yet. You’re just beginning. But we all have to start somewhere, and a writing career begins with
you
.
At first, I didn’t buy this. So I emailed Mr. Pressfield. I wanted to know the truth about this writing business, what it really took. In an interview, I asked Steve, “When do you
really
become a writer? Is it when you get an agent? When you sign your first book contract? When you sell 100,000 copies?”
He said it was none of that. The truth was much simpler. When do you become a writer? “When you say you are,” he said.
I didn’t get it. I poked and prodded, trying to dig deeper. I wanted practical steps and formulas. Where were my charts and diagrams? But he insisted, “Screw what everyone else says. You are when you say you are.”
I decided to give this a shot. What choice did I have? All this self-doubt, all this questioning — I was willing to do whatever it took to alleviate the lack of confidence I felt.
So I started saying I was a writer. I put it on my Facebook page. Included it in email signatures. Everywhere I could, I wrote that I was a writer. It was kind of ridiculous, but something crazy happened as a result of this campaign.
It actually
worked
.
As I started making these public proclamations of identity, I actually started believing them. I began to trust my calling before I had anything to show for it.
Before anyone else called me one, I believed I was a writer. And I started acting like one.
Then something strange happened. I started to get better at my craft. All because of a few, mere words. Through this process, I learned a crucial lesson. Before others will believe what is true about you, you’ll have to first believe it yourself.
Okay, we’re going to do an exercise together now. Take a moment and write this down. Do it as an act of faith, of believing before you see. Say it before you feel it.
This isn’t positive thinking mumbo jumbo; it’s affirming something deep inside of you that you’ve been resisting. It’s time to submit, to surrender. Are you ready? Write it now before this sense of urgency leaves you. Grab a pen and paper — make this a tactile experience — and write the following words:
I am a writer.
Good. Now do it tomorrow and the next day. Continue this practice for the rest of your life until you believe it. And then keep doing it as a means of practice and ritual. Because there will always be doubt. Always anxiety and second-guessing.
Welcome to the life of an artist.
Being True to Your Voice
Most people don’t know what they want. We writers sometimes forget this. So we write the words we think others want to hear. There’s just one problem with this. It’s not how you create art.
As a communicator, your voice matters. More than you realize. We (your audience) are relying on you for your insight and profundity. We need you to poke and prod, not merely pander.
You have to be yourself, to speak in a way that is true to you. This is the next step to reclaiming your life as a writer — taking yourself seriously so your audience will, too.
Admittedly, this was hard for me. I had spent years helping other people find their voices. I wasn’t sure I’d recognize my own when it came. And truth is I didn’t. I needed help. I needed people to tell me when I had hit my sweet spot. When I had struck a nerve.
When I started writing every day without excuse, I didn’t know my material was resonating with anyone. I was just showing up. It took a few friends telling me I’d found my voice before I realized it.
The same may be true for you. Some days, it’s enough of a chore just to put your butt in a chair and stay put. To create something. Anything. If you do this long enough, though, you start to create really good work.
It may be subtle at first, but if you continue — if you persevere — you’ll discover a reality all professionals know quite well.
Everything is practice. Every word you write and action you take is a chance to get better. This is the difference between professionals and amateurs. Pros are always looking for a chance to get better, to improve their craft just a little more.
Practice Makes Habits
Last year, I finished my first half-marathon. But this wasn’t my first attempt at running one.
A few years ago, I tried to run a race and failed. I didn’t practice, didn’t buy the right shoes, and didn’t do the work. Halfway through the training, I injured myself and had to quit.
Then I tried again. But this time, I took it seriously. I gave the sport the respect it deserved.
I believed if I put the time and effort in, I could do it. I committed to a plan and made room in my life to practice. I used the right equipment and invested a little money, which made me take it even more seriously.
Several months later, I crossed the finish line.
Not too long after the race, I woke up early one morning, drank some coffee, and went for a five-mile run. After that, I wrote a few pages for my book and went to work.
That evening, I looked back on the day and was shocked by all I had accomplished. Getting up early, running five miles, writing over a thousand words — where did all this discipline
come
from?
It came subtly, as all things well practiced do. It didn’t happen by thinking about it. Not through wasting time with meaningless goals or silly, fruitless plans. No, it happened from doing the work — creating habits and building momentum. This is the secret to mastering any discipline: As you conquer one, you’ll find it easier to tackle another.
If you do anything long enough, it becomes habitual. This is the goal for any passions in life: to wake up and do it without thinking. This can happen for writing, running, and anything else you want to do in life. It won’t be easy, but it can become effortless.
Yes, it may hurt on occasion, but if you do something long enough, you eventually stop thinking about it.
Professional weight lifters don’t get sore like you and I do when we lift weights. They show up, push themselves, build muscle, and go home. Then tomorrow, they get up and do it again.
The less they think, the more successful they are. The same is true of any craft. Soreness is the result of untrained muscle. If you practice every day, you don’t get fatigued. All muscles are built this way, even creative ones.
When you start writing every day, you’ll find yourself getting more comfortable with your voice. So will others. As those two intersect, you’ll discover your message.
This may take months or years. But if you keep showing up, keep practicing and doing the work of a professional, you’ll find it.
The Secret to Successful Writing
Experts say you’re supposed to imagine a specific person and write for him. This is a trick marketers use to find their ideal customer. They choose someone, give him a name, and focus all communication efforts on reaching that person.
I did the same. I chose to write for one — and only one — person: myself.
The only person you need to worry about writing for is
you
. This is the secret to satisfaction in anything: doing what gives you life and not trying to live up to others’ expectations.
As you do this, you may find what I found, that you’re not as unique as you thought. There are a lot more people like you than you realize.
When I published my online manifesto and over a thousand people downloaded it in a week, I realized I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. It made me feel not so alone. Incidentally, that’s the same thing people who read the manifesto thought when they read it.
Someone recently put it like this: “If you’re ‘one in a million,’ and the world is full of seven billion people, that means there are seven thousand people just like you.”