Last week I spoke about how much discipline does for writers in the quest to conclude their books. I bet that wasn’t the first time you would hear that. Everyone talks about how working late into the night or waking up early, blocking time, silencing distractions and building habits matter. All of these are valuable tips, but they are not the whole story. The struggle of many writers goes beyond talent and time. It includes a battle with emotion.

You probably have not noticed but writing stirs things up within you.

Whenever you sit down to write seriously, you expose part of yourself that you have consciously or unconsciously learnt to protect. Writing evokes questions that you would ordinarily want to avoid, it unsettles your peace with its tendency to bring clarity in situations where ambiguity always offered you peace and comfort.

For some others, the emotional struggle is with the fear of being misunderstood. You know exactly what you mean by what you are writing but you fear that others will read it differently. That anxiety can leave you paralysed. In some instances, writers fear that they may be ignored. You are seized with so much worry that the work you labour so much for might just disappear into the world without response or notice.

Then, there is the subtle fear that your writing will open you up to scrutiny, that people will see you too clearly.

And then there is a subtler fear: the fear of being seen too clearly.

The thing is that writing will force you to take a position, sometimes in spite of yourself. Your writing, if you desire any measure of effectiveness, will reveal your values, things you believe in and sometimes what you no longer believe in. Unless you are being dishonest, your writing reveals who you are. Writing takes away the luxury of flexibility, which silence affords you. It creates records.

This fear of exposure is why many capable and knowledgeable people stall midway into their book. The ideas remain as clear as ever, their structure is intact, but the emotional weight of public familiarity increases the closer the books get to completion. They are excited at the beginning of the book, but reaching the finishing line bears far too much risk than they are willing to deal with. So, they stop!

There is also loneliness. The act of writing is solitary even when you are surrounded by a multitude. Decisions about tone, emphasis, how much vulnerability you allow and all that rests solely with you. No one can share the burden of the real and perceived fears with you; especially when you are working on books and long-form projects where external validation may take forever to come or never come at all.

So, What Do We Do with This Emotional Cost?

First, we embrace it and stop pretending it doesn’t exist. Call the emotional resistance by the name it is, and it loses its power over you. Just tell yourself the truth. Instead of seeing yourself as lazy or lacking discipline, be true to the fact that you worry about how your writing will open you up. When you do that, you put a name on the shame and replace it with understanding. By doing this, you are having compassion on yourself.

Second, you should also learn to carry the weight of this resistance instead of waiting for it to disappear. I do not think that writers who see their work through are entirely fearless, they just have learnt to write despite their fear, uncertainty and weariness. Your goal is about building emotional capacity rather than finding some emotional comfort. That is elusive. Courage in writing is quiet persistence, and you should work towards that.

Third, we separate our identity from immediate reception and validation. Do not worry yourself to paralysis because you desire instant applause and validation from your work. Writing is essentially a long game and although, some work hit acceptance pretty early, a lot of others find their audiences slowly. In many instances, writings make impact without so much visibility. They shape thoughts, influence decisions and clarify ideas for individual readers or a community of readers just at the right time. Those works have made as much impact and gained validation as much as the raving bestsellers. You should therefore detach your worth from immediate response, this will guard you from discouragement and ego.

Finally, let’s remember why we write at all. When you think about it, you’ll see that most meaningful writing turns out to be an act of service ahead of the self-expression motive. When you write, you are offering clarity, experience, warning and hope to someone. So, when you get to that juncture where emotional struggles try to sniff courage for completion out of you, return to the audience that the work is for and get encouraged. Going back to the purpose does not take away fear, but it places fear in its place ahead of some more important good and pushes you unto completion.

I urge you to consider this as a note of encouragement from someone who sees you in those moments when writing feels heavier than you expected. Know for sure that you aren’t failing, you are just dealing with the real work. The emotional cost of writing is not a red light compelling you to stop, it is often evidence that you are doing what matters.

You should proudly keep at it. One day, it will pay off.

You can buy my book, Every Journalist Should Write a Book, here

Niran Adedokun,

Writer | Communications Strategist | Book Strategist | Author of “Every Journalist Should Write a Book