🧩The Unromantic Truth About Writing: Why Passion Isn’t Enough
Why Passion Just Isn’t Enough
By Makitia Thompson
1. The Myth of the “Passionate Writer”
There’s a strange illusion that follows writers like an unwanted pet: the belief that passion alone fuels great work. You’ve probably seen it in every inspirational quote slapped onto an Instagram gradient background, “Write with your heart, and the world will listen.”
Cute, right? But here’s the problem: most people forget that passion doesn’t automatically translate to skill, structure, or emotional endurance. Passion is the spark, not the fire. You can’t warm a room with sparks alone; you need something that lasts long enough to catch.
When I started writing professionally, I thought passion was the work. I poured everything into my first few stories, convinced that my raw emotion would carry the weight of my inexperience. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. The drafts were clumsy, unfocused, and embarrassingly self-indulgent. I wrote scenes for the sake of “feeling something,” not realizing that readers want to feel something too. But they don’t want to drown in your emotions. They want to swim in theirs.
Writing isn’t therapy. It can become therapeutic, but only once you learn that passion is a tool, not a crutch.
That was the first lesson I learned the hard way: passion starts the journey, but discipline finishes it.
2. The Moment I Almost Quit
Every writer has that moment, the breaking point where they stare at the blinking cursor and think, maybe I’m not meant for this.
Mine came at 2 a.m., somewhere between self-doubt and caffeine withdrawal. I had just gotten another rejection email from a publisher I was sure would love my manuscript. The subject line read, “Thank you for your submission.” You know, the universal code for “we didn’t even make it past page five.”
I remember closing my laptop and saying out loud, “That’s it. I’m done.”
Of course, I wasn’t. Writers don’t quit easily. We’re masochists with keyboards.
But that night, something broke in me-not in a dramatic “tears and whiskey” way, but in a quiet, humbling way. I realized that I’d spent years chasing approval rather than mastery. I wanted to be a writer more than I wanted to learn how to write well.
So I stopped chasing and started studying. I dissected books I loved. I analyzed dialogue, tone, rhythm, pacing. I read bad writing, especially my own and figured out why it didn’t work.
Passion had gotten me into the room, but craft was the only thing that kept me there.
3. Talent Is Overrated, But Awareness Isn’t
Let’s talk about talent, that slippery concept we all secretly measure ourselves against. People love to say things like, “You’re such a natural writer.” As if words simply flow out of some divine spigot installed at birth.
Talent is nice, but it’s unreliable. Awareness, on the other hand, is gold.
Being aware means noticing why something works. Why a sentence lingers. Why a scene hurts. Why dialogue feels real or why pacing falters. Awareness is what transforms raw instinct into craft.
I once had a writing mentor tell me, “Talent gets attention. Awareness earns trust.”
It took me years to understand that. Readers don’t return because you’re talented; they return because you made them believe something. That’s not talent, that’s awareness and control.
You can’t control inspiration, but you can control awareness. And that’s where real artistry lives.
4. The Creative Hangover
Ah, yes, the post-project crash. You’ve written something incredible (or at least survivable), and the high fades. Suddenly, you feel hollow. The story’s done, the characters are silent, and your sense of purpose feels like it evaporated overnight.
Welcome to the creative hangover.
The first time I experienced it, I panicked. I thought I’d lost my passion. I kept rereading old drafts, trying to rekindle that same electricity. But creativity doesn’t repeat itself on command, it evolves. What I learned is that you have to grieve your completed work a little.
Writing demands emotional energy, and when it’s over, that energy needs somewhere to go. If you don’t redirect it into reflection, rest, or something as simple as reorganizing your notebooks, it’ll eat you alive.
The hangover doesn’t mean you’re empty. It means you’ve given something real.
5. The Writer’s Ego and the Fear of Being “Average”
Every writer secretly fears being mediocre. It’s the creative equivalent of death. But here’s the dark joke: mediocrity isn’t a destination, it’s a phase.
When I first began publishing, I remember reading reviews that said things like, “The story had potential, but…” and then they’d proceed to tear apart every element I was proud of. I’d pretend to laugh it off, but I’d reread those comments like they were scripture.
Eventually, I realized something both freeing and horrifying: everyone writes mediocre work sometimes. Even the greats. Especially the greats.
The trick isn’t to avoid mediocrity, it’s to outgrow it.
Writers who survive the industry aren’t the most talented. They’re the ones who know when to burn their darlings and start over. They don’t protect their ego from criticism, they use it as fuel to refine their instincts.
You can’t grow if you’re too busy defending your own genius.
6. Writing Isn’t Magic, It’s Math
Let’s ruin the mystique for a second. Writing isn’t this endless cosmic flow of divine creativity. It’s pattern recognition.
A good story obeys invisible equations; setup, payoff, contrast, tension, release. When people talk about “pacing” or “voice,” they’re talking about rhythm. Writing has a musical structure; it breathes in beats.
Once you learn to recognize those beats, writing becomes less about waiting for inspiration and more about constructing momentum. That’s what separates professionals from dreamers.
When I’m outlining a story, I treat it like an equation:
Emotion + Structure = Immersion.
Too much emotion, and it’s chaos. Too much structure, and it’s lifeless. Balance is the trick.
That’s what readers respond to, even if they can’t explain why.
7. Rejection Is a Form of Direction
Here’s an uncomfortable truth: rejection is part of your job description. It’s not a reflection of your worth, it’s a rerouting mechanism.
Early in my career, I kept a folder called “No’s That Almost Killed Me.” Every rejection email went there. Eventually, I stopped opening it, not because I was discouraged, but because I didn’t need it anymore.
Every “no” taught me something different. Sometimes it meant my work wasn’t ready. Sometimes it meant I’d sent it to the wrong audience. And sometimes, it meant nothing at all. Timing is a cruel editor.
You’ll get a thousand rejections in your career. Some will sting. Others will free you to write something better.
Rejection is never the opposite of success, it’s the prequel.
8. The Lie of “Overnight Success”
Let’s have a moment of silence for all the writers who think one viral post will solve everything.
You know the type: “This author went from self-publishing to a six-figure deal overnight!” Except what the headline doesn’t tell you is that “overnight” took ten years, four jobs, and a nervous breakdown.
Success in writing is like erosion-it happens slowly, imperceptibly, until one day, people look at your body of work and call it “genius.”
You don’t get there by chasing visibility. You get there by accumulating consistency.
There’s no magic window where the world suddenly decides you’re brilliant. There’s only you, your desk, and another blank page waiting for you to show up.
9. The Personal Part: Why I Still Write
Sometimes I get asked, “What keeps you writing after everything?”
It’s not the money (though that helps). It’s not the validation. It’s the quiet moments where I realize my words have become someone else’s comfort.
I once received an email from a reader who said one of my characters helped them process their own grief. I cried reading that. Not because it was flattering, but because it reminded me that writing isn’t about us, it’s about connection.
That’s what I chase now. Not fame. Not perfection. Just moments of resonance.
Writing isn’t a career I chose. It’s a conversation I never stopped having.
10. The Truth You Don’t Want but Need to Hear
If you want to write professionally, prepare to fail repeatedly and publicly. Prepare to be misunderstood. Prepare for the quiet years where nobody seems to care.
But also prepare for the magic that sneaks in between those moments: the late-night breakthroughs, the characters that surprise you, the readers who whisper, “I felt that too.”
You’ll hate writing sometimes. You’ll want to quit. But if you push through the noise, you’ll discover that the unromantic truth is also the most freeing one:
Writing doesn’t owe you success. But it does offer meaning, if you’re willing to earn it.
11. Final Words (and a Touch of Sarcasm)
If you made it this far, congratulations, you’ve survived a pep talk disguised as realism. You’re officially one of us: a slightly unhinged, endlessly curious, self-doubting, joy-chasing storyteller who refuses to stop.
You’ll stumble. You’ll grow. You’ll overuse commas and underuse rest days. But in between all that chaos, you’ll make something real.
And when you do, you’ll look back and realize, passion was never the fire. You were.
- Makitia
#MindsInDesign #Makitia #TheMidUniverse #MakitiaThompson #Midstories #BecauseIFeltEverything #WhereTimeCantExist
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