Keeping the Passion Alive

You start off with an idea. You’re excited by it. You want to write it. So you start.

Then you get bogged down. Lost. Stuck. All enthusiasm gone. 

Sound familiar?

Or, zoom out to a macro view:

You love the process of writing. You work hard. You finish projects. But then “nothing happens.”

Meaning, you don’t get the love back you hoped. You don’t get repped, sold or produced.

Or you do, but not as many people see it and embrace it as you might have wanted.

How does one deal with that?

Keeping the passion alive can be difficult. Both during a project, and as a writer overall.

I’ve experienced this first hand and learned some things that work for me.

First of all, recognize that it’s normal. And it’s okay to feel the feelings. You don’t have to be super human in your ability to stay upbeat, excited and confident regardless of everything.

Everyone goes through versions of this, at all levels. Being in the arts (ask actors, musicians, etc.) is about being rejected. A lot. About not being “successful” as a kind of default setting. And having some insecurity, about each new thing you do.

And most projects fail at some point. Some earlier than others. It’s the tiny few that go on to be beloved, successful, money-making all-time classics.

With everything else, their creators get disappointed at some point. They had a show on the air for two seasons, then it got cancelled? Disappointment.

That might seem like a high class problem, but it’s not fundamentally different, emotionally, from when a script fails to win contests and move forward in the industry.

It’s the same basic dynamic at different levels. And it’s the norm.

When a project gets “hard”

Also normal is a burst of inspiration followed by a morass of difficulty. Where the excitement of possibilities segues into struggle from loss of confidence and direction.

For me this tends to happen because I start to rush, and push, and focus on outcomes. While letting my critical mind have a field day on every single thing I come up with.

It’s very common during a first draft. No matter how much you pre-planned and outlined, something about filling the blank space of an actual document that someone might read (and reject) can trigger anxiety and imposter syndrome.

And a sense that you really don’t know enough about this story to actually write it, and have it be decent. In your judgment or anyone else’s.

But we often try to push through that. Fill pages. Make quantifiable progress.

And there’s a place for that. For “vomit drafts.” For trying to make self-imposed deadlines. Measuring daily output. Scheduling your way toward “completion.”

But completion of what? A draft you growingly sense is mostly not usable as you’re writing it? Or a draft that feels close, at least, to something, and that is leading you in new directions as you write that feel like they will add to what this eventually becomes, in a good way?

I’ve experienced both and don’t find a lot of value in the former. Where you’re just making yourself fill pages to meet a quota or just “get it done.” 

For me the answer usually comes in slowing down. This isn’t a race. And it’s okay that you don’t really know what to write next or how to make it all work. Or how to enter a scene you’d outlined but now that you’re trying to write it, your outline seems woefully inadequate.

To me the process of writing is mostly a case of “not knowing something” that you need to know in order to create something good. At every point. Every day.

It starts with identifying what that thing is. (Or the one of many things that you want to work on next.) Not beating up on yourself or the project that you don’t know that yet. Inviting answers to come. Light-heartedly.

When they come – meaning an idea that you believe is good and are suddenly inspired to explore, in answer to your “unknown element” – that’s the best part of the process. What some call “inspiration striking.” Suddenly the passion is back.

I find this happens when I’m less focused on outcomes, productivity and impatience. I’m not pushing, I’m not trying to rush ahead. And I’m not judging what I have so far (or myself) too much.

I’ve only learned this from a lot of trial and error. And I still fall into those traps. But I know how to get out.

It’s to settle into whatever you don’t know, and need to know. Make peace with that emptiness. About what a character is feeling and might do next. About what would be the best next scene in your story. About how to start a scene. About elements of your story world that you’re not sure add up yet. Or even finding a your next project. Whatever it is.

Identify what’s missing. Be okay with the emptiness. Relax into it. Make peace with it. And trust ideas will come. 

Then repeat.

This is the majority of my writing process on most days. “Bad days” are when I couldn’t quite do that, or I did, but ideas didn’t come that I was good with. (That usually is because I was too self-critical.)

“Good days” are when ideas were flowing the whole time and I almost couldn’t write them down fast enough.

Make peace with all of it. And trust that “state of mind” is crucial to the process.

Come back to your inspirations

Another helpful practice is to reconnect with the core of why you wanted to write this.

What strong individual passions of yours does this speak to?

It could be about a certain genre or type of story, a character or situation, a topic or theme.

These are important to suss out, as they are part of your “voice.” What makes you unique, that only you could write the way you would write it.

A specific voice is highly valued in the industry. It’s a gradual process to understand and develop yours. But the key is to trust it. To trust that you can create writing of value and it all starts from the core inspirations that drive you, overall, and in this project.

Fleshing it all out into a comprehensive piece of writing others can understand and engage with involves a lot of hard work and trial and error, potentially. And there might be multiple “false” starts or rethinks of the story you want to tell. The mechanics of it. 

But if you keep coming back to your “why” (and ideally have a strong “why” in the first place), that can be a foundation you trust. And work from. 

The bigger picture of writing

We all want the rare outcomes. The huge successes. And with each project one maybe has to have hope that it could lead to that.

But misery comes from focusing on the things you can’t control. What others will think. How far it will go. What it will do for you once it’s done.

The mind wants to jump ahead to those fantasies. Or be upset when they don’t happen.

Neither helps you be more productive. Or peaceful. Or happy.

The War of Art is a great book about developing a practical mindset, a “hardhat and lunchbox” mentality about doing your daily writing work, and moving through the “resistance” in your own mind that will try to talk you out of it, and stop you.

I recommend it to everyone trying to do anything that requires sustained effort over time toward a big goal that is unlikely and rare, but inspires one to reach for it.

There are few things more unlikely and rare than a script getting produced and being successful. Even for most professional writers, who have done that at some point.

So instead we focus on what we can control, and deriving satisfaction from that. Being more concerned with a process that works than outcomes we would let define us.

Meaning putting in the time, doing the work, and doing it in a way that works for you. Where you like what you’re creating, day to day. The small things. Which over time add up.

It probably also means getting feedback, taking your lumps, considering others’ notes, and then rethinking and rewriting.

But the key is that you’re moving forward with inspiration at every point. With passion. By using the techniques I mentioned and whatever else works for you to get out of the crippling mindsets that strangle creativity. And make this your priority, at every phase.

Whether it’s coming up with your next idea, slogging through the middle the process, or considering a major revision of something you thought and hoped was “done.”

If you can keep your head down and keep moving forward, with openness, willingness, and commitment to fight the inner fight of the creative lifestyle, that’s what you can control.

Outer rewards can be elusive. But if the inner daily rewards of a satisfying and productive writing process can drive you, so much so that the outer concerns recede. And that’s when you’re ironically more likely to see positive “outcomes.”

And it’s because you became all about the work and making it better. Not so it will sell or get produced (though it might). But because serving that is a worthwhile undertaking that feels good from day to day.