One of my favorite quotes from G. K. Chesterton goes like this:
There is a kind of work which any man can do, but from which many men shrink, generally because it is very hard work, sometimes because it will lead them whither they do not wish to go. It is called thinking.
Writing demands thinking, which is why it requires what John Stott once called PIM—“pain in the mind” time. It’s slow, often agonizing work, this process of thinking, revising, and pressing an idea until you’ve considered it deeply.
I often tell aspiring writers that there’s no way to avoid the work. Not if you want to truly write, rather than merely enjoy the afterglow of having written something. Not if you want to really think, rather than dash off an idea and watch generative AI spit out something you can slap your name on.
I love veteran writer Lynn Vincent’s description of a typical writing session:
A writer’s day at work: You close all the doors to your office, spin around three times, whisper a prayer while secretly thinking about the laundry, then put on your lucky headphones with the soothing rain sounds and let the creativity flow until you realize your desk drawers urgently need rearranging. When that’s done, you check all your messaging platforms to be sure you haven’t overlooked a text or email or any other possible reason not to actually start writing and, finding none, you finally lay hands on the keyboard, hoping that Serious Art, or at least cohesive language, appears on the screen via some mysterious alchemy you’ve tapped before but are certain is a dry well now, and why oh why did you ever sign this contract, and you’ll never again write anything worth reading, and the cherry on top is, now everyone will know you’ve been faking it all these years.
And then it’s Tuesday.
For some reason, we’re tempted to believe writing should come easily. As if words ought to gush effortlessly from our hearts and minds onto the page.
Yes, there are moments like that, times when you’re deep into an article or sermon or book project, and you lose track of time and enter a state of flow. They’re wonderful. They’re also rare. More often than not, the flow comes only after the slog. You won’t arrive in the meadow of inspiration until you force yourself through the thicket of thinking.
I love the bluntness of Stephen King: “Amateurs sit and wait for inspiration, the rest of us just get up and go to work.”
If you’re looking for a hack or shortcut that will make writing easy, I’m afraid there aren’t any.
Prepare the Way for the Work
That said, there is good news. There are ways to prepare the way for writing. You can’t eliminate the painful part, but you can make the process more endurable.
I’ve come to agree with James Clear on developing good habits: “Motivation is overrated. Environment often matters more.” Or, as he also says, “You don’t have to be the victim of your environment. You can also be the architect of it.”
Over the years, I’ve leaned on a number of environmental cues that help trigger my brain into writing mode, even when I’m not feeling particularly motivated or inspired. The basic elements are simple: time, place, sound, and cost.
One of the most important practices for me is an annual summer writing retreat. I drive nearly three hours to a quiet place in East Tennessee overlooking a lake. I treat it like a monastery of sorts—three days and nights with just me and the Lord. I know the room. I know the view. Breakfast and dinner are provided (I skip lunch).
Unplugged, surrounded by stillness, I’m able to focus intently on a book or major project. I surround the work with times of prayer, Scripture reading, and long walks where I talk with God about what I’m working on, the challenges I’m facing, and how I hope to serve him through my writing. That place is holy ground to me.
Notice what’s at work here. There’s a specific time. There’s a specific place. There’s quiet and beauty. And there’s a cost. I’ve paid for the room. I’ve driven a long way. I’ve cleared the calendar. All of that creates a sense of pressure: You’re here for a reason. Don’t waste this.
Sometimes, that pressure can backfire and feel paralyzing, which is why the spiritual aspect matters so much. In the moments of desperation or stress, I remember I’m not writing alone. I can confess my anxiety, ask for help, take breaks, and return to the work again. The goal is progress, not perfection. A draft. An outline. Something I can keep refining once I return home.
Train Your Brain to Write on Cue
On a more regular basis, I try to create a similar effect on a smaller scale.
Most Friday mornings, I spend a few hours writing at North Wind Manor, the space hosted by The Rabbit Room. It’s a place designed for artists and writers, complete with a fireplace that once belonged to J. R. R. Tolkien. Friends of mine often show up. There’s conversation, laughter, homemade biscuits, and all the tea or coffee we can drink.
It’s a communal, coffee-shop kind of environment, which means I use noise-canceling headphones when it’s time to focus. I also have a playlist I turn on every Friday morning. Over time, my brain has learned the cue. Same place. Same time. Same sounds.
Once again, the building blocks are there. There’s a cost (a half-hour drive). There’s intentionality. There’s ambience. All of it says, Whether you feel like it or not, you’re here to write. So get to it. And most weeks, once I sit down and start, I do.
Habits of Writing
None of this removes all the pain. Writing will always require PIM time. You still have to show up. You still have to do the work.
But willpower alone isn’t enough. Pay attention to the environments where your best thinking happens. Notice the places, sounds, and rhythms that help you focus. Then, as much as you’re able, return to them. Build a little cost into the process. Give your brain the signals it needs.
Over time, those small, intentional choices about where and when you write may be the difference between talking about writing and becoming a writer.
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