Motivation. We’ve all had. We’ve all lost it. Trust me, I know. I have been motivated to get sexy for the summer for over a decade, and I am still not where I desire to be. Why? Because motivation, not discipline, was the driver.
I will explore why I think motivation is-well, you’ve seen the title. It’s unreliable and most of all fleeting. Motivation comes dressed in the most convincing costume you have ever seen. Allow me to prove my posture.
I recently began working on Book 3. An idea that had rattled around in my brain, leaving nicks along already worn surfaces, and after a year, demanded I put it to paper. I was motivated-burning with something I have no words to describe. Hopes were high. I was high (not literally) but you get the sense of euphoria I had for this project.
Then, somewhere around 14,000 words, I lost the spark. For what I set out to achieve that word count was no where near enough. I had embraced the fantasy of this wonderful new project coming to fruition. I invested more in the dream than in the actual work of building it. The dream was intoxicating; the discipline required to see it through was not.
But this wasn’t the first time I have started out full steam ahead only to fizzle out before covering meaningful ground.
Taming Armand and Bloody Endings were not my first endeavors into writing. Neither were my first attempts at finishing a book. If anything, they rank fourth and fifth on a list that the others didn’t make it onto.
Back in 2018, I was motivated. Really motivated. That was the year. I was going to get my sh*t together. I would finally lean into my talents and write the book. That had been my motto: Write the Damn Book. I had attended my first Noir at a local coffee shop and was riding that emotion high. And by golly. I was going to ride it all the way to a finished manuscript.
Somewhere between life well- life-ing-the time spent writing became less and less. Sleeping a full eight hours became sexier than burning the midnight oil a few nights out of the week. My to-do list included everything but writing, and eventually, I chose productivity over creativity. The payoff of a quick, completed task was more exciting than the delayed gratification creativity offered. The thrill had left before the story had began.
The early pages of that manuscript ended up in a binder, alongside other forgotten ideas. Each of their origins forged from fleeting moments of motivation.
Fast forward to 2022. Life shifted in ways that I hadn’t anticipated. Illness pulled my card, and I grazed the hem of Death’s garment. By God’s grace, I was left on this side of the veil. And when I stepped into 2023, what propelled me ahead was not motivation. It was something quieter. Far more stubborn. It was discipline.
Taming Armand had begun to take shape into something serious. I decided to remove it from Inkitt and into a Word document. I set deadlines. I carried my laptop to work and wrote on my lunch break instead of doom scrolling. I showed up for the page even when the page felt like the last place I wanted to be.
With a little self-reflection and a new awareness, I discovered that motivation seduces. It will show up beautifully dressed. Full of promises. Endless possibilities. Then-it will leave. It always leaves. Motivation is not designed for the long haul. It is the spark, not the furnace.
Discipline is the furnace. It is far from romantic. It does not arrive with fanfare nor is it a feeling. No one cheers. There are no t-shirts. Discipline is simply the decision, made again and again, to continue-even when the magic is gone. Even when 14,000 words seems like evidence of failure rather than proof of progress.
I no longer search for motivation. I reach, yearning to touch discipline instead.
Until next time-has motivation carried you through? Or have you found discipline to be the more reliable companion? Sound off in the comments. The Weirdo wants to know.
