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Looking for motivation to write a book and actually finish it on time? In this post, I’m breaking down my top tips for overcoming common obstacles that appear when writing a book.

These obstacles aren’t the ones that you think—we aren’t going to talk about finding time, or lighting a candle, or creating any other ritual. 

We’re going to be a little more off-beat—but still practical. So let’s dive in. 

Solutions to Combating Writing Disappointment That Aren't Delusions of Grandeur

Recently, I received this note from a writer: 

Dear Mary, 

Do you have suggestions for dealing with the struggle that the idea in your head is so much better than the way it comes out on paper?

When this question came up in our weekly group coaching call, there were a lot of nods. I think this is a struggle that many writers relate to—the disappointment of the words on paper failing to live up to our novel idea. 

I certainly relate to it. Every book I've written has been better in my head, and of course it has—reality can't compete with an imaginary ideal. Our ideals don't have flaws—we conveniently leave those out in our fantasies! 

But for some writers, this discrepancy between ideal and reality—the fear of writing disappointment—can be paralyzing. 

So here are 3 strategies for dealing with this struggle. (Keep reading—I'm saving my favorite for last.)

Strategy #1: Embrace the lesser evil

I call the first strategy “the Lesser Evil”.

The book you write will be a disappointment in some ways. 

It always is. I always am. I literally always am. And not just books I write, but also essays and poems and short stories. I've been disappointed in everything I've ever written, and that's okay. 

But here's the thing: the disappointment of having written something that was better in your head is still better than the book you haven't written yet gnawing at you. 

When I compare those two feelings, there is no question which I prefer: I prefer to disappoint myself. I prefer to have something. I prefer to act as opposed to feeling impotent and paralyzed.

The disappointment of having written something that was better in my head is still better—t's a preferable feeling to the emotional weight of an unwritten book.

Strategy #2: Try on humility

A few months ago, I went to a creativity seminar led by Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Big Magic and City of Girls (among other great books). 

During the Q&A portion, a writer asked her a version of this same question, and she had a one-word answer: humility. 

“You need to embrace humility,” she said. Maybe you aren't going to write Moby Dick. Maybe you aren't going to change the world in some grand, sweeping way with your novel. Maybe it won't win all the awards. And what if that's the case? How does it make you feel? 

Will you do it anyway? 

Because if so, maybe you're doing it for a reason other than potential accolades or grand impact—maybe you don't need these, and you can accept that you are a writer who is going to write regardless of whether your work strokes your ego in the way you hope. 

I also want to share with you a quote from George Saunders' most recent book on writing, A Swim in a Pond in the Rain

I want to read you a quote from this book because I think it's really powerful. He's talking about the moment when we look at a work of art that we have created, and he says:

“It is less, less than we wanted it to be. And yet it's more too—it's small and a bit pathetic, judged against the work of the great masters, but there it is, all ours. What we have to do at that point, I think, is go over, sheepishly but boldly, and stand on our shit-hill, and hope it will grow. And to belabor an already questionable metaphor, what will make that shit-hill grow is our commitment to it. The extent to which we say, well, yes, it is a shit-hill, but it's my shit-hill, so let me assume that if I continue to work in this mode that is mine, this hill will eventually stop being made of shit and will grow, and from it, I will eventually be able to see, and encompass in my work, the whole world.”

I love this quote. I think this is another great way of saying what Elizabeth Gilbert was saying in that seminar. Ten times out of ten, our idea is not going to emerge perfect and fully-formed like Athena from Zeus' skull—but it will be our idea, and with commitment and dedication, it will continue to grow into something better.

Strategy #3: Remember the reason we read

We  read fiction in order to use our imaginations in a way that we don't when we're watching a movie or a TV show. If we want to be spoon-fed images, we have Netflix. 

We read because we want something different—we want to use our imaginations. And since that's why people are going to be reading your book—because they want to use their imaginations—the fact that it's not as good as it is in your imagination is fine. 

In this sense, recreating what was in your imagination shouldn't even be your goal.

Your goal is to convey the gist of what you've imagined so that someone else's imagination can fill in the gaps in its own unique way. That's what a book is: an experience that you trigger, but that the reader must ultimately create on their own. 

In other words, the goal is not to paint for this person exactly the idea in your imagination. If that's what you were doing, you would be a filmmaker.

Let's say you're in a courtroom and there's this really dramatic trial happening. And then there's a transcript made of this trial. The transcript of the trial is like your novel. You look at the transcript and you think, it didn't capture the energy of the courtroom...it's missing the heavy tension in the air, and the humidity, and the way that the witness's eyes were darting back and forth...

But when someone else reads it later, they are going to fill in those gaps, and if someone else is able to recreate that experience in their imagination from reading the transcript, the transcript is doing its job.

So remember: when you’re getting down your novel idea on paper, you’re not trying to perfectly capture what's in your head. You’re just trying to capture it well enough that someone else can reconstruct it in their own way.

Treat yourself with ice cream or a Tesla

Think back to when you were a kid, and recall a reward that you desperately wanted. I can think of a bunch: my name under the sunshine that read “THANKS!” on my second-grade teacher’s chalkboard; the Kind Student of the Week badge in fifth grade; the shopping spree to the mall my mom promised me if I brought home all A’s all year.

As adults, many of us have forgotten the art of rewarding ourselves for a job well done. We have trained ourselves to perform at our best as a kind of standard expectation, without taking a moment to pat ourselves on the back—or even better, give our inner child a treat.

When I was in my 20s I was working on a book (my first book!) and living in New York City. Every morning on my way to work, I passed this incredible ice cream truck. I never stopped because it was morning, and... one doesn’t eat ice cream in the morning. But one morning I gave myself a promise: When I finish this book, I’m getting morning ice cream.

Suddenly my morning commute became motivational. I’d pass those big, condensation-drenched tubs and think: Will I get mint chocolate chip that future day (my usual), or something else?

When I did actually finish the book, I wrote a poem about it. Here it is:

The Reward

I decided to deny myself the ice cream
until the day I finished the book,
and when that day came I
found I no longer wanted the ice cream
because I had the book.
However:
It was fun to walk by the pistachio tub each day,
my feet hot,
and pretend I still wanted it, 
but was waiting.

Over the years, my goal rewards have been all sorts of things. I’ve given myself a blanket; a jacket; a necklace. I've chosen experiences—a cooking class, a vacation, a bike ride to Coney Island.

These items and experiences are all special to me because of what they symbolize—a goal, reached. In this way, they are packed with meaning.

In my course, one of the first assignments is to pick a goal reward for when you finish your book. It doesn’t have to be expensive. It can be something small, like ice cream.

What do you want to reward yourself with when you finish whatever it is you're working on?

We’re all kids in adult clothing. Put something tasty at the end of your work. You will have earned it.

Want access to a free training on my Four Notebooks Method for writing your book? Apply for my 12-month program The Book Incubator, and I'll send it over! (Applying takes <5 minutes, and there’s no obligation to enroll to get the free training.)

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