When Proving Yourself Becomes The Goal

Last week we talked about how January lies to everyone, promising a fresh start, a different path, or even a new identity. But writers tend to mistake the goal of writing a book with the identity of a writer.

“I want to write a book” becomes “I need to be a perfect writer before I can write a book.” It becomes more about the outcome than the process. Hint: perfect is the killer in this “writing a book” goal.

I have no idea how many times I’ve been scrolling on Reddit’s writing forums when I find writers talking about how terrible their books are because they are bad writers. For them it becomes about the outcome, a published book, and that means the first draft needs to be ready to publish. When instead they should be focused on the process.

But here’s what I’ve noticed: these writers aren’t actually talking about their books. They’re talking about themselves.

When someone says “my book is terrible because I’m a bad writer,” what they’re really saying is “if this book isn’t good enough, then I’m not good enough.” The book has become evidence in a case they’re building against themselves.

And that’s when writing stops being about creation and starts being about proof.

The Hidden Goal Behind Your Goals

Think about your January writing goals. The ones you set on New Year’s Day, or maybe the ones you’re setting right now after reading last week’s newsletter about January being a liar.

Now ask yourself: what are those goals actually for?

Are they about creating something you’re genuinely excited to explore? Or are they about proving something?

Proving you’re disciplined enough to be a “real” writer. Proving you’re not wasting your time. Proving to that person who said “writers starve” that they were wrong about you. Proving to yourself that you’re capable of finishing something. Proving you’re serious about this, not just dabbling.

When I was writing my thesis, I told myself I was striving for academic excellence. But really? I was trying to prove that the kid who nearly failed high school math could earn honors. I was trying to prove that losing my sight hadn’t broken me. I was trying to prove I belonged in a space where I’d always felt like an imposter.

The thesis became evidence. And when evidence is on the line, every sentence carries too much weight.

What Happens When Writing Becomes Proof

Here’s the problem with using your writing to prove your worth: you can never write badly enough to prove you’re worthless, and you can never write well enough to prove you’re worthy.

Because worth doesn’t work that way.

But we act like it does. We sit down to write and the first sentence that comes out mediocre feels like a verdict. We write a chapter that doesn’t quite land and suddenly we’re questioning whether we should be doing this at all. A stalled project becomes proof that we’re not cut out for this.

And then the perfectionism kicks in. Not because we care about craft (though we do), but because if the writing has to be perfect to prove we’re worthy, then we can never let it be less than perfect. Ever.

So we rewrite the first chapter seventeen times. We delete more than we keep. We spend three hours on a paragraph that will probably get cut in revision anyway. Because if it’s not good enough yet, then we’re not good enough yet, and that’s unbearable.

The Reddit writers who call themselves bad writers aren’t struggling with craft. They’re drowning in a proving game they can’t win.

The Cost of Playing This Game

I spent an entire summer stuck on one chapter of my thesis. An entire summer that could have gone toward drafting the full argument, discovering what my thesis was actually trying to say, building toward the conclusion.

Instead, I polished. I perfected. I tried to make that one chapter good enough to prove I deserved to be there.

And here’s what that cost me: three months of forward momentum. Erosion of my confidence every single day I couldn’t move past it. The growing fear that maybe I wasn’t actually capable of finishing.

The irony? The chapter I finally submitted, the one that earned me my bachelor’s degree, wasn’t the perfectly polished version I’d spent all summer on. It was the one I rewrote from scratch in six weeks because I finally gave myself permission to just get it done.

The proving kept me stuck. The creating got me finished.

When Good Enough Becomes Unacceptable

There’s a particular kind of writer who ends up in this trap, and if you’re reading this, there’s a good chance it’s you.

You’re not someone who doesn’t care about quality. You’re not someone who’s fine with mediocre work. You hold yourself to high standards, and that’s actually a strength.

But somewhere along the way, those standards stopped being about the work and started being about you.

“Good enough” stopped meaning “this draft accomplishes what it needs to accomplish at this stage.” It started meaning “good enough to prove I’m a real writer. Good enough to prove I’m not wasting my time. Good enough to prove I deserve to call myself an author.”

And nothing is ever good enough for that.

So you stay stuck in the early pages. You keep revising what’s already written instead of drafting what comes next. You tell yourself you’re being responsible, that you’re maintaining standards, that you’re doing it right.

But what you’re actually doing is avoiding the vulnerability of finishing something and having to find out what it is without the safety net of “I could have made it better if I’d kept working on it.”

The Question That Changes Everything

Here’s what I want you to ask yourself this week:

If no one ever saw this book, would you still want to write it?

Not “would you still bother.” Would you still want to.

If the answer is no, if the only reason you’re writing is to prove something to someone (including yourself), then you’re not writing from the right place. You’re performing. And performance is exhausting.

But if the answer is yes, if there’s something in this story that you genuinely want to explore, some question you want to answer, some world you want to spend time in, some characters whose journey matters to you regardless of whether anyone else ever reads it—then that’s your way out.

That’s the difference between writing to prove yourself and writing because you’re a writer.

One of those paths leads to published books. The other leads to perpetual chapter ones.

What This Means for Next Week

Next week, we’re going to talk about the question January should have asked instead of “what do you want to achieve?”

Because achievement is outcome. And outcomes are fragile.

What you need is something that survives bad drafts, stalled projects, and chapters that don’t work. What you need is a foundation that exists independent of what you produce.

That’s identity. And that’s what we’re building starting next week.

For now, just notice: are you writing to create, or are you writing to prove?

The answer will tell you everything.