On the Productive Lie

Last week in our coaching call, we spent time touching base with something fundamental — why we write. What our writing allows us to say. The truths we get to explore. The permissions we give ourselves when we sit down at the page.

At the end of the session, writers wrote letters to themselves. Reminders for the hard days. And while there were striking similarities across many of the responses — the same fears, the same longings, the same reasons for showing up — the letters quickly became something else entirely. Precise. Personal. No two were the same.

One permission that surfaced stopped me. The permission to prioritize writing over other productive tasks.

It sounds simple. It isn't.

Most of us are familiar with the inner critic in its obvious forms. The voice that seeds doubt in our abilities. That compares us to writers with more experience, more credentials, more apparent right to tell the stories they want to tell. If you're in that place, remember this: the inner critic only shows up around things that matter. It doesn't bother with the things we don't care about. Its presence, as uncomfortable as it is, is a signal that this work means something to you.

And the answer — as hard as it is — is to write anyway. We can't know how good something is until it exists. We can't grow as writers, can't discover the value of our work or who it might reach, without putting words on the page. Just write. Today.

But there's a subtler trick the inner critic plays — one that's harder to spot because it arrives wearing a disguise.

It convinces us that writing, especially on the days when we don't feel inspired or don't know exactly what to write or how to revise, is not as productive as the other demands of our lives. And on the surface, it has a point. Compare an uncertain, directionless writing session to putting in overtime at work, cleaning the bathroom, doing an extra load of laundry, washing the car — and one choice can look a lot more productive than the other.

But that's the lie.

The first reason it's dangerous is this: every time we choose the bathtub over the page, we teach ourselves something. We teach ourselves that writing is a hobby. Something to do when everything else is done. Something that doesn't quite count. And the more we listen, the more we believe it. Until the only thing — maybe the only work in our lives that is purely for our spirit — gets pushed to the bottom of the list permanently.

Consider the joy of writing a perfect sentence. Of capturing a moment exactly right. Of bringing a scene to life in a way you didn't expect. Does a clean bathtub feel just as meaningful?

The second reason is quieter but more damaging. Avoiding the uncertain writing sessions means avoiding the most important ones. The days when we don't know what to write or how to write it are not wasted days — they are the days where the real work happens. Staring at the wall and imagining. Reflecting. Writing a scene that will never appear in the manuscript but teaches you something about your character you didn't know before. The words may not end up anywhere. But you are learning. You are deepening your perspective. You are getting closer.

The only way through uncertainty in writing is to stay in it. To play. To trust that the session matters even when you can't measure what you got from it.

And here's what I know to be true: the more you prioritize your writing — especially when you don't feel like it — the better your writing will become. Not because discipline is a virtue in the abstract, but because you cannot edit what has never been written. You cannot discover what your story is capable of from the shore.

Prioritize your writing time. Not because you've earned it. Not because everything else is done. But because you never know who needs to hear what you have to say.

Wishing you and your stories all the best,

Trevor Martens

Founder, I Help You Write Things

P.S. Calls like this are always a reminder to me that writers grow fastest when they have space to ask questions, share struggles, and stay connected to other people pursuing the same dream. That sense of support is a big part of what the Write Things Community is built around.