When you're trying to figure out what to do with your life, one question comes up again and again: What would you keep doing, even if you knew you'd never succeed?
It may be reframed in a different way, about money or recognition, but I’m sure you’ve heard some variation of the question. Ultimately, it’s a question about finding out what you love to do regardless of the outcome.
Just yesterday, I watched Brandon Sanderson’s three-hour-long interview with Tim Ferriss. For those who don’t know, Sanderson is one of the most prolific modern writers of fantasy and sci-fi. He has sold over 40 million copies of his books worldwide, which include the Mistborn and Stormlight Archive series, and he raised a staggering $41 million for a Kickstarter campaign in 2022. To put it simply, he’s pretty much at the top of his respective class.
In the interview, he talked about how around the time he left for college, he fell in love with writing, and how, despite his mother’s pleas for him to study to become a doctor or chemical engineer, he knew that being a novelist was the one thing he truly wanted to pursue.
These past few years, I’ve gone through a similar realization. I found that I love to write, that it’s one of the few things I can do in which time passes without notice, and that once I developed a habit and discipline for writing, the next logical step seemed to be to try to write a novel. Even though Sanderson came to this realization at an earlier age, much of what he was saying really resonated with me.
And then he dropped a bomb. He said that he wrote thirteen novels—yes, thirteen whole novels!—before he got his sixth novel, Elantris, published. Let me reiterate. He wrote thirteen novels over the course of eight years, sending them out to various agents, publishers, and editors, only to be continually rejected. And then finally, some editor, whom he had sent his manuscript to eighteen months prior, happened to read his work and enjoyed it enough that he wanted to buy it.
Upon hearing this, I had a real Charlie Brown moment—I palmed my forehead and muttered, "Good grief."
So that’s what it takes, huh?
Sanderson goes on to explain that his journey is not the same journey that happens to all authors. Some authors have the talent and skill to get their first novel published. But this is uncommon. Most authors write for many years before getting anything published.
I had a kind of crisis of faith at this moment. Did I think that I could write, continuously and with the same discipline, for seven or eight more years before I got something published?
Honestly, the answer is yes. I love to write! Writing is the easy part. Most of the world hasn’t read what I’ve written, and yet I still love doing it all the same.
But do I have the patience?
This is a much more difficult question to answer. Because the truth is that I have serious doubts. I’ve been fortunate to have a life situation, mostly thanks to working remotely, in which I can write for 90 minutes every morning. I can’t stress enough how sacred these 90 minutes are to me. I’ve found it difficult to write in the afternoon, evening, or nighttime. And so, the only time that seems to work, in which I write anything of substance, is in those first 90 minutes of my day, after I have showered and eaten breakfast, and finished sipping the last drops of a shot of espresso.
But this routine might not always be the case, right? A new job, a new relationship, a new city could all lead to significant lifestyle changes that slowly squeeze those 90-minute writing blocks out of my life. And then what? Will I just give up on writing?
On top of that, there’s a far more existential question lingering.
Artificial intelligence can write really well. It doesn’t have the same soul or character of something written by a human. It often lacks the emotional nuance, lived experience, and idiosyncratic messiness that make human writing feel alive. But that will change with time. It will only keep improving. And then what? Does the written word simply become a commodity? Will anyone even want to buy new books anymore?
My fear is that we’re moving toward a post-literate society.
Yes—we still have BookTok and Goodreads, and there are vibrant communities that continue to celebrate fiction. But generally speaking, people don’t read as often as they used to. (According to a 2021 Gallup poll, Americans read roughly three fewer books per year than they did between 2001 and 2016.) And while many still love fiction, men in particular seem to read and write less of it than in past generations. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, Faulkner, Vonnegut, Orwell—these were once cultural icons. They embodied a form of intellectual masculinity, thoughtfully wrestling with big ideas like identity, class, morality, and war.
Today, many cultural conversations—especially among men—take place through podcasts or video content. Figures like Joe Rogan are now at the center of cultural discourse. And while I’m not here to dunk on podcasts, I do think the act of writing a novel demands a different kind of deep attention, vulnerability, and reflection—one that feels increasingly rare.
So, to sum it all up, things feel bleak for writers.
If AI can do it, and it’s a medium that no one really wants to consume anyway, what is the point of writing? Do I continue to do it for the love of the game, even though the chances of success become increasingly more slim?
And what if my situation is much like Sanderson’s, where I commit to writing, and I write for eight years with constant rejection and obscurity?
Will the world wait for me, after eight years? Or will things have changed too drastically?
I am frustrated by the fact that the one thing I have found in this life that I really enjoy doing, nobody seems to care about it much anymore. It’s like finding a treasure chest full of Beanie Babies.
And so, in my own wallowing distress and gloom, I’m forced to do the one thing that often comes with such great difficulty for me: to be optimistic.
I’ve been reflecting a lot about how optimism is a choice. It’s a skill like any other, one that must be developed and practiced over time. Yes—it comes more naturally for some people than others. But that doesn’t mean that it’s exclusive to a few rare weirdos who always seem to be on the sunny side of life.
Last week, when I was visiting Amsterdam, I passed by the Anne Frank House. I wasn’t able to get a ticket to go inside, but I reflected on her conscious decision to choose optimism. We all know the story: against all odds, she chose hope. And yet, her story is still one of tragedy and injustice. She didn’t live to tell the tale. She was a victim of the Holocaust.
But thank God she wrote her story down in that diary.
I think I will write mine, too.
When you're trying to figure out what to do with your life, one question comes up again and again: What would you keep doing, even if you knew you'd never succeed?
It may be reframed in a different way, about money or recognition, but I’m sure you’ve heard some variation of the question. Ultimately, it’s a question about finding out what you love to do regardless of the outcome.
Just yesterday, I watched Brandon Sanderson’s three-hour-long interview with Tim Ferriss. For those who don’t know, Sanderson is one of the most prolific modern writers of fantasy and sci-fi. He has sold over 40 million copies of his books worldwide, which include the Mistborn and Stormlight Archive series, and he raised a staggering $41 million for a Kickstarter campaign in 2022. To put it simply, he’s pretty much at the top of his respective class.
In the interview, he talked about how around the time he left for college, he fell in love with writing, and how, despite his mother’s pleas for him to study to become a doctor or chemical engineer, he knew that being a novelist was the one thing he truly wanted to pursue.
These past few years, I’ve gone through a similar realization. I found that I love to write, that it’s one of the few things I can do in which time passes without notice, and that once I developed a habit and discipline for writing, the next logical step seemed to be to try to write a novel. Even though Sanderson came to this realization at an earlier age, much of what he was saying really resonated with me.
And then he dropped a bomb. He said that he wrote thirteen novels—yes, thirteen whole novels!—before he got his sixth novel, Elantris, published. Let me reiterate. He wrote thirteen novels over the course of eight years, sending them out to various agents, publishers, and editors, only to be continually rejected. And then finally, some editor, whom he had sent his manuscript to eighteen months prior, happened to read his work and enjoyed it enough that he wanted to buy it.
Upon hearing this, I had a real Charlie Brown moment—I palmed my forehead and muttered, "Good grief."
So that’s what it takes, huh?
Sanderson goes on to explain that his journey is not the same journey that happens to all authors. Some authors have the talent and skill to get their first novel published. But this is uncommon. Most authors write for many years before getting anything published.
I had a kind of crisis of faith at this moment. Did I think that I could write, continuously and with the same discipline, for seven or eight more years before I got something published?
Honestly, the answer is yes. I love to write! Writing is the easy part. Most of the world hasn’t read what I’ve written, and yet I still love doing it all the same.
But do I have the patience?
This is a much more difficult question to answer. Because the truth is that I have serious doubts. I’ve been fortunate to have a life situation, mostly thanks to working remotely, in which I can write for 90 minutes every morning. I can’t stress enough how sacred these 90 minutes are to me. I’ve found it difficult to write in the afternoon, evening, or nighttime. And so, the only time that seems to work, in which I write anything of substance, is in those first 90 minutes of my day, after I have showered and eaten breakfast, and finished sipping the last drops of a shot of espresso.
But this routine might not always be the case, right? A new job, a new relationship, a new city could all lead to significant lifestyle changes that slowly squeeze those 90-minute writing blocks out of my life. And then what? Will I just give up on writing?
On top of that, there’s a far more existential question lingering.
Artificial intelligence can write really well. It doesn’t have the same soul or character of something written by a human. It often lacks the emotional nuance, lived experience, and idiosyncratic messiness that make human writing feel alive. But that will change with time. It will only keep improving. And then what? Does the written word simply become a commodity? Will anyone even want to buy new books anymore?
My fear is that we’re moving toward a post-literate society.
Yes—we still have BookTok and Goodreads, and there are vibrant communities that continue to celebrate fiction. But generally speaking, people don’t read as often as they used to. (According to a 2021 Gallup poll, Americans read roughly three fewer books per year than they did between 2001 and 2016.) And while many still love fiction, men in particular seem to read and write less of it than in past generations. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, Faulkner, Vonnegut, Orwell—these were once cultural icons. They embodied a form of intellectual masculinity, thoughtfully wrestling with big ideas like identity, class, morality, and war.
Today, many cultural conversations—especially among men—take place through podcasts or video content. Figures like Joe Rogan are now at the center of cultural discourse. And while I’m not here to dunk on podcasts, I do think the act of writing a novel demands a different kind of deep attention, vulnerability, and reflection—one that feels increasingly rare.
So, to sum it all up, things feel bleak for writers.
If AI can do it, and it’s a medium that no one really wants to consume anyway, what is the point of writing? Do I continue to do it for the love of the game, even though the chances of success become increasingly more slim?
And what if my situation is much like Sanderson’s, where I commit to writing, and I write for eight years with constant rejection and obscurity?
Will the world wait for me, after eight years? Or will things have changed too drastically?
I am frustrated by the fact that the one thing I have found in this life that I really enjoy doing, nobody seems to care about it much anymore. It’s like finding a treasure chest full of Beanie Babies.
And so, in my own wallowing distress and gloom, I’m forced to do the one thing that often comes with such great difficulty for me: to be optimistic.
I’ve been reflecting a lot about how optimism is a choice. It’s a skill like any other, one that must be developed and practiced over time. Yes—it comes more naturally for some people than others. But that doesn’t mean that it’s exclusive to a few rare weirdos who always seem to be on the sunny side of life.
Last week, when I was visiting Amsterdam, I passed by the Anne Frank House. I wasn’t able to get a ticket to go inside, but I reflected on her conscious decision to choose optimism. We all know the story: against all odds, she chose hope. And yet, her story is still one of tragedy and injustice. She didn’t live to tell the tale. She was a victim of the Holocaust.
But thank God she wrote her story down in that diary.
I think I will write mine, too.
