My motivation is at an all-time low. Oh, alright, that’s probably a slight exaggeration. The year in which I sat around and watched YouTube videos non-stop was probably less impactful on the overall progression of my life than the situation I’m in right now. Plus, as much as I don’t feel as though I’ve been doing much, a quick step back to assess my workflow suggests otherwise. I’m still dedicating hours of my weeknights and weekends to working on my podcast. Heck, the latest episode that went out last Sunday is my proudest creative moment yet. I managed to engineer some gags within it that genuinely made me laugh out loud. For someone who often hates their finished projects, this is a step in the right direction.

Aside from that, however, I feel frustrated with myself. I don’t feel as though I’m doing enough. Okay, so perhaps that isn’t the right way to word it.

I don’t feel I’m doing enough to boost my career.

There we go.

It’s the novel work. I just haven’t been committing to it. My Scrivener file for my latest project was last opened on the 21st of September! That feels like a lifetime ago. I mean sure, I’ve scribbled down some notes and done plenty of thinking about it, but actually funneling words into the main body of text hasn’t happened for six bleeding weeks.

This isn’t the first time this has happened. In fact, it’s happened dozens of times. More than I can count. The number of novels I’ve started, only to have left them to gather dust until they are barely recognisable is unreal. How do I get myself into these positions? How do I go from passion and drive to neglect and disinterest?

I remember the last time this happened. It was July 2022. I was going through a really rough period. My mental health was poor and found myself ignoring the underlying reasons that were causing it to be in such bad shape. To add to this, someone who I was very close to at the time became phenomenally wealthy in an incredibly short stretch of time. Naturally, I was supportive of them, but deep down, there was an envy bubbling within. They’d made a fortune doing something niche at a very young age. They weren’t toiling away in an office job that they were discontent with. They were creating and making a boatload of cash from the work they were producing.

From the moment I identified the resentment bubbling inside my head, I knew I needed to do something about it. I couldn’t simply get mad or petty about my friend’s circumstances. I was proud of them, and I wasn’t going to allow my emotions the opportunity to spoil that. So instead, I decided I was going to try to do something similar. I was going to do something I loved and make money from it. Even if I didn’t get rich from it, the very thought of earning through creating became something I was hungry for. So I opened my laptop, downloaded Scrivener, and started working on an idea I’d been dreaming about for some time.

All of this occurred while I was taking two weeks of annual leave from work. During the first week, I spent most of that time eating junk, flicking through potential matches on a dating app I had downloaded, and catching up on TV shows I’d been neglecting over the months. By week two, I was bored. Not just bored in the usual, restless sense. The absence of keeping myself busy had left me with a sense of overwhelming self-disgust. I felt like nothing; slob of a soul who had burnt an entire week sat in front of the TV, doing anything of any worth with their existence. I had to do something, anything, to feel as though I was working toward a greater cause. I had to muster meaning out of my existence.

The sense of uselessness and drive to be more like my friend served as a pungent cocktail of motivation. I felt more determined than I had in years. It was the adrenaline shot I’d been needing for years. I’d spent the better part of a decade ignoring my dreams in favour of a paycheck. While I was fortunate to have a good job and a humble income to pay my bills, I’d abandoned the dreams I’d chased with such passion during my younger years.

As the second week of my holiday sailed toward its end, I typed more than I’d typed in years. By the end of it, I stepped back to find I’d written 20,000 words. There were protagonists, an antagonist, an otherworldly threat, and a fictionalised town based loosely on the one I’d grown up in. Fine, so it was about as well-presented as a crate of dropped yogurts. Still, there was something tangible. I was transferring my ideas from mind to paper, cobbling them into a tangible world of sorts.

At the time, I distinctly recall thinking that this was it. This was finally the turning point. After years of ignoring the horrified disappointment in neglecting my passions, I was finally doing something about it. I wasn’t simply sitting around, hoping for an opportunity to swing by and rescue me from my misery. I was actually doing something about it. I was gearing myself up for action. Whether the novel would sink or swim was beside the point. I was actively writing, turning my dreams into a reality, no matter how successful the payoff might be.

By the time my holiday had come to an end, the motivation vanished. Or at least that’s how I remember it. Maybe it lingered around for a little while. A few hundred words here, a couple of thousand more there. Nothing compared to that week of manic production. Eventually, it faded almost entirely, replaced instead with other hobbies and leisurely activities.

Where did the motive go? Part of me still wants to blame the problems I was having at home at the time. I’d also like to put it down to the fact I had entered into a new relationship shortly thereafter, which took up great deals of my time. If we’re being honest with one another, however, I think it’s fair to say it was none of these things. I got scared. Scared of failure, perhaps. Heck, probably even scared of success. The idea of putting my money where my mouth is frightens me. I mean, what happens if it works? What happens if people buy it and like it and start to ask me questions about it? Will my imposter syndrome kick up several gears? Almost certainly. How will I cope if I cannot replicate the magic again? I’ll probably spiral; mad at myself for not being good enough at even a career I love.

Perhaps the root cause is a little more branched than that. I sometimes wonder if it’s because I know the next stages are the hard part. Vomiting out 20,000 words in a bid to set the stage is the easy bit. It’s just a case of translating thoughts into words. Time-consuming? Sure. But effort? Not entirely.

It’s the next stage when things get tough. Actually remapping your ideas so they flow properly. Tweaking your characters so they sound believable and logical. Threading the action and theme together so everything flows in harmony. Combing through every word and sentence to make sure the spelling and grammar are presentable. Breaking up the plot into chapters. Providing structure to the tale. Promoting the work to the world beyond the study.

These are the stages I’ve yet to reach. These are the stages I’ve yet to test myself against.

I think I’m scared of all this. As much as I like working hard, I’m frightened of diving into the unknown; unsure whether or not I’ll be any good at the unfamiliar tasks. I’m scared I’ll reach the end game, only to have no clue how to talk about my work to others, or sell it to the wider world. So I freeze up. I drag my heals and branch off to work on other projects.

Of course none of which is to say I’m doomed to fail. I think I just need to reframe how I think about myself and the work I product. I think doing this is more possible than I sometimes think. For one thing, I know I have it in me. I have proof that I can approach a new task, figure out how to deal with it, and come out the other end having done a good job.

Let’s take the Podcast as case one. Back in June of this year, two friends and I decided to produce a podcast together. While I’d done some experimentation with this medium a few years prior, I was practically a newcomer to the artform. My friends had been talking about setting up this show with me for the best part of a year by this point. I told them sure, but I’d need to think about how to approach it. I’d have to learn about the tech required, the software involved, the best way to structure a show, and how to distribute it. Then, a friend of ours who’d been working on his own show for several years gave me the best bit of advice I could ask for; just record and sort the rest out later.

I’m paraphrasing, of course, but the sentiment remains the same. I needed to just start with the recording. All the other little tasks involved could be ironed out after the raw material had been mined. I went out, bought a handful of microphones, recorded us chatting about a new Doctor Who episode we’d all watched, and saved it on my computer.

In the days that followed, I downloaded Audacity, trimmed the episode down into a 39-minute slab of material, and published it. Fast forward several months, and I can practically do it in my sleep now. Taking 120 minutes of chat and reshaping it into a show is something I love doing and don’t get overwhelmed by. While I’m not good enough to create gold out of anything, there is definitely a skill there. I’m even at a stage where I feel comfortable experimenting with jingles, comedic edits, and storytelling mechanics within an episode. A few weeks back, I even decided to create a parody advert using clips of things my co-hosts and I said during a chat about confectionery.

My point is, the alien and scary tasks associated with making a podcast were hurdles I took on. I approached jobs that I had no experience in and then figured out how to make them work. I didn’t give up. I didn’t come out the other side feeling like a failure. Instead, I took them as an opportunity to learn, test myself in a new field, and improve with time. I’ve still got a long way to go before I’m content with my podcast editing abilities, but the point is I took on those challenges and found joy along the way.

I can do the same with writing. I can edit a novel, restructure it, fine-tune its characters, harvest thematic meaning from the stew of ideas, spruce up the grammar, and publish it into the wider world. Do I know how to do these things without having to push myself beyond my comfort zone? Nope. Am I guaranteed to achieve these tasks with success? Highly unlikely. But can I do them without the world crumbling around me? Of course I can.

A lot of what I’m saying is probably simplifying a much larger issue with my approach to writing. These probably aren’t the only reasons why I have a tendency to pour untold volumes of energy into a project before walking away from it. I suspect many more epiphanies will spring forth as I reflect on the ways my mind functions. Be that as it may, it’s a start. If I’m to break these patterns and find ways to actually stick with my larger writing projects, I need to be honest with what’s going on inside my mind. I also need to find ways to contradict the parts of me that are self-sabotaging.

It’s easy to give up on writing because I think I’d be no good at it. It’s easy for me to just say I’m not good enough, or that I haven’t got the capability to retain my focus. It’s easy to make excuses so you don’t have to do the heavy lifting. But how can I say any of this with utmost confidence when I haven’t actually taken the time to properly address the issue?

Twenty years ago, I told myself I could never run a mile. I was an overweight kid who was hated by my more sporty peers for being useless in PE. I was always the kid to be picked last when teams were being formed. Having me on your team was considered a hindrance of the highest order. Fast forward several years, and I decided to start running in a bid to combat my depression. The first few sessions were not fun. I saw stars in my eyes as I struggled to catch my breath. Eventually, I managed to run a mile. I couldn’t believe my smartphone as I crossed the 1,760th yard. I was as shocked as I was delighted. Fast forward several more years, and I found myself shocked as I ran over the finish line at the Bournemouth marathon. The very same mind that told itself it couldn’t run a mile had just run 26 of the darn things in a single session. Had I just reiterated the notion that it wasn’t in me when I first saw those stars dancing in front of my vision, I’d have never trained for that marathon.

The stories we tell ourselves have power. They have the potential to shape how we behave and operate in this world, both in positive and negative ways. But these stories don’t always hold true. I can tell myself I’m not good enough, or that I haven’t got the drive. Yet when I step back and look at my life, I know I have the drive. I know I can power through. I know I can do things that I once told myself were impossible.

All of which is an incredibly longwinded way for me to say to myself…

…Open up that damn Scrivener file.