The ugly truth about why everyone quits their book (except this one badass)

Each week, I have conversations with people who claim to want to write a book. I listen carefully, not just to establish if I like an individual, which is necessary if I’m to take them on as a client; if I think the project would be interesting and teach me a thing or three; but also, if this nice enthusiast is likely to drive the work to completion.

Or not.

Sure, I could accept money thrown at me, do my best by someone for as long as I’m allowed, but I just hate it when someone quits because, true co-dependent that I am, I always wind up blaming myself. (Boundary issues are a bastard.)

So, why do people, after investing all that money, effort, and time, up and quit? What happens between the “OMG, I’ve got this amazing book idea, this burning drive to eat glass if I must…” and the “Let’s take an indefinite hiatus…”?

True scientist that I am, thanks to that ancient chemistry degree, I’ve drawn some conclusions. But only after gathering sufficient data points.

But first, let me tell you about something that excited the shit out of me recently. Judith Kunisch—brilliant healthcare strategist, educator, and systems thinker—has returned to complete the monumentally ambitious book she started before her husband died. The Center of the Star: Understanding and Changing the U.S. Healthcare System tackles nothing less than mapping the five interconnected arms of our entire healthcare system and showing how change in one sector demands transformation from all the others. This is the kind of work that could reshape how we think about healthcare reform entirely.

When life knocked Judith down—and I mean drop kicked her down a flight of stairs—she could have walked away from this massive undertaking. Who would blame her? But she didn’t. She came back to finish what she started, and the result is a book that charts a roadmap for reforming American healthcare through systems thinking and strategic collaboration. Her “star framework” breaks down the system into consumers/patients, providers, payers, policymakers/regulators, and the health industrial complex—each point of the star interconnected and interdependent.

This is what resilience looks like in the writing world. This is what matters.

Now, back to why people quit. Ready for the most common reasons?

First, let’s get the acts of God out of the way:

1. The death of a parent or other loved one, which pretty much blows up life, not just creativity.
2. Sudden blindness (you think I’m kidding).
3. A life changing event that makes the original book idea seem irrelevant.

(Yes, if I could make blindness no BFD, this person would be a bestseller today!)

Second, we’ve got the whole bloom-is-off-the-rose scenario, which presents itself in different guises:

1. The discovery that muses and downloads from the Universe don’t exist (unless you’ve got access to psychedelics). (Again, you think I’m kidding)
2. A lack of appreciation for process and the abiding belief that one’s first draft should capture the essence.
3. The inability to tolerate uncertainty and inadequacy (see #2) for longer than 15 minutes.
4. The onset of Shiny Object Syndrome—oh, hey, I just came up with an even better idea for a book—which is usually played out in one’s business as well.
5. The onset of Imposter Syndrome (see #3) and a whole host of other fears.
6. The recognition that one might tell a great story, but it doesn’t even begin to translate on the page, which is not only shocking, but untenable.
7. The revelation that writing is time-intensive, despite what internet pundits claim.
8. The startling awareness that the act of thinking is laborious.
9. An unrealistic expectation of the writing timeline, particularly for more complicated genres. (see #7)
10. Second-guessing ROI.

I could go on, but you get my point.

By the way, the acts of God quitters? They’re 100% more likely to return to the task at hand after life calms down. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s because when you’ve faced real loss, the manufactured obstacles of writing suddenly seem manageable. Maybe it’s because grief teaches you what actually matters. Or maybe it’s because some books—like Judith’s—are too important to abandon, even when abandoning them would be the easiest thing in the world.

Why am I telling you this?

Because writing involves a lot of drudgery and uncertainty. To produce anything worth reading takes effort. There’s a learning curve involved. If you’re used to being an expert, you will resist being a beginner. Sucking at something for a good long time is demoralizing. And it always takes longer than you think it should, which is hard, because people like us are used to making shit happen NOW.

But here’s what Judith Kunisch reminds us: some work is bigger than our comfort, bigger than our timeline, bigger than our temporary discouragement. Some books need to exist in the world, and if you’re the person meant to write them, you’ll find your way back. Even after the worst happens. Even when it feels impossible.

And then, one day, it all clicks into place. And you not only finish your book, but you also become someone else. You become clear, concise, powerful, because you’ve done the work. You become someone who doesn’t quit on what matters, even when quitting would be understandable.

Like Judith, who returned to tackle the complexity of American healthcare because the status quo is unacceptable and legitimate change is necessary. Who understood that changing a system this size takes years, requires patience, and demands systems thinking and collaboration across all sectors.

That’s the writer I want to be. That’s the writer I want to work with.

OK, gonna hop off my soap box and get to work. Hope this helps—and hope it reminds you that sometimes the most important books are the ones we almost don’t finish.