Writing the Books We Want to Write (Or: How to Stop Drafting the Manuscript You Think You’re Supposed to Produce and Start Drafting the One That Won’t Leave You Alone)

There is a special kind of exhaustion reserved for writers who are halfway through a book they do not actually want to write.

You know the one.

It sounded smart. It sounded marketable. It sounded like something a “serious author” would produce while wearing glasses they do not need and drinking tea that tastes like bark. It may even have a tidy outline and a compelling subtitle with a colon in it.

And yet.

You open the document and feel like you’re clocking in for a shift.

That is not inspiration. That is literary customer service.

Meanwhile, in the back of your mind, there’s another book. The inconvenient one. The weird one. The one that blends investing with existential dread, or neuroscience with sarcasm, or mystical folklore with Midwestern budgeting strategies. The one that feels slightly dangerous to admit you’re writing.

That book will not let you sleep.

This blog is about that book.

The Myth of the “Correct” Book

Writers absorb invisible rules early:

Write what sells.
Write what’s trending.
Write what agents want.
Write what won’t embarrass you at Thanksgiving.

Notice how none of those include:
Write what makes your brain light up like it just discovered fire.

The “correct” book is often a compromise between market logic and social safety. It’s tidy. It’s digestible. It’s slightly beige.

The book we want to write is messier. It may not fit neatly on a bookstore shelf. It might combine genres in ways that marketing departments dislike. It may risk revealing too much of us.

And that’s precisely why it matters.

The Secret Energy Test

Here’s a brutally simple diagnostic tool:

Ask yourself:
When you talk about this book idea out loud, do you sit up straighter?

If your voice changes—if you start gesturing like you’re arguing in front of Congress or pitching a startup to a billionaire—you’re onto something.

The book we want to write contains energy.

Energy is not just enthusiasm. It’s obsession. It’s the kind of mental stickiness that makes you think about a paragraph while brushing your teeth. It’s the kind of idea that refuses to behave.

The “safe” book rarely has that energy. It’s polite. It waits its turn. It does not demand midnight notes in your phone.

The wanted book is feral.

The Fear Factor (Which Is a Clue)

If a book idea makes you slightly nervous, congratulations. That is not a red flag. That is a compass.

Writers often avoid the books that:

Reveal their real opinions
Mix humor with serious topics
Cross disciplines
Challenge sacred cows
Break format conventions

Why? Because these books risk judgment.

But judgment is proof of friction. And friction generates heat. And heat creates light.

No one has ever been criticized for writing something that didn’t matter.

If you’re afraid people will misunderstand your tone, question your angle, or label you something unflattering, you may be circling your most honest work.

The book we want to write often threatens the image we’ve curated.

And that’s why it’s alive.

Permission Is a Mirage

Somewhere along the line, writers start waiting for a signal.

An agent.
A contract.
A viral post.
A comment that says, “You should write a book.”

Permission feels safe because it spreads responsibility. If someone approves the idea, then failure isn’t entirely yours.

But the book you want to write will not receive formal permission. It will receive internal pressure.

There’s something oddly liberating about realizing no one is coming to hand you a laminated author card. You don’t graduate into writing the book you want. You decide.

And once you decide, something shifts. The project stops being hypothetical and starts being inevitable.

The Identity Trap

Many writers get stuck because they confuse their current audience with their permanent identity.

If you’ve written about finance, you may feel obligated to remain in finance. If you’ve written satire, you may feel stuck being funny forever. If you’ve written serious academic pieces, you may feel allergic to whimsy.

But creative identity is not a prison sentence.

You are allowed to expand. You are allowed to merge tones. You are allowed to be both serious and absurd, analytical and mystical, structured and chaotic.

In fact, the book you want to write probably lives at the intersection of your contradictions.

That’s where originality hides: in the overlap of things that “shouldn’t” coexist.

The Market Isn’t the Enemy—But It’s Not the Author

Let’s address the practical voice in the room.

“But will it sell?”

That’s a valid question. You don’t need to be reckless. You don’t need to ignore audience or structure or positioning.

But here’s the nuance:

The market can refine a book.
It should not invent it.

Start with the idea that obsesses you. Then shape it intelligently. Find the angle that makes it accessible without sanding off its edges.

A book born purely from market trends often ages poorly. A book born from genuine curiosity has depth. And depth has staying power.

Readers can sense when a book is animated by something real.

Writing Against the Grain of Yourself

Sometimes the book we want to write isn’t flashy or controversial. Sometimes it’s simply honest.

Maybe you’ve been writing with bravado, but what you actually want to write is vulnerable.

Maybe you’ve been playing the cynic, but what you want to write is hopeful.

Maybe you’ve been explaining things, but what you want to write is exploring them.

The risk isn’t always external criticism. Sometimes it’s internal dissonance. You’ve built a voice. You’ve built expectations. Changing direction feels like betrayal.

But stagnation is a worse betrayal.

The book you want to write might be the next version of you.

The Long Game

There’s a strange paradox in creative work:

The books we chase for approval rarely satisfy us.
The books we write for ourselves often find the right readers eventually.

This isn’t mystical. It’s structural.

When you care deeply about a topic, you naturally explore it with more nuance. You take intellectual risks. You invest time in refinement. You think beyond surface-level arguments.

That depth creates something distinctive.

Distinctiveness is rare. And rare things have gravitational pull.

The Boredom Signal

If you are bored writing your book, pause.

Boredom is feedback.

It doesn’t always mean the entire project is wrong. Sometimes it means you’re avoiding the interesting part. You’re circling safe territory instead of stepping into the messy argument you actually care about.

Ask yourself:

What would make this chapter dangerous?
What question am I dodging?
What opinion am I softening?

The book you want to write often requires sharper edges than the draft you’re producing.

Creative Hybrids Are Not a Mistake

Some of the most compelling modern books refuse to stay in their lanes.

Memoir blends with research.
Finance merges with psychology.
Science collides with philosophy.
Cultural commentary sneaks into self-help.

If your idea feels “too mixed,” that might be its strength.

The world doesn’t need more predictable structures. It needs synthesis. It needs voices that can connect dots across disciplines.

The book you want to write may not fit cleanly into one genre. That’s not confusion. That’s evolution.

The Draft You’re Avoiding

Let’s be honest.

There is probably a document in your folder right now that you haven’t opened in weeks because it feels too personal or too ambitious.

That’s the one.

Not because it’s guaranteed to succeed. Not because it’s polished. But because it contains something unfinished in you.

Writing the book you want to write is less about productivity and more about confrontation.

You confront:

Your real beliefs
Your insecurities
Your contradictions
Your curiosity

And you do it in public.

Of course that’s uncomfortable.

Obsession vs. Discipline

Here’s the twist: wanting to write a book is not the same as finishing it.

Obsession gets you started. Discipline gets you to the end.

The book you want to write deserves structure. It deserves deadlines. It deserves the unglamorous act of showing up when the excitement dips.

Romanticizing inspiration is easy. Sustaining a project through the slow middle is the real craft.

The irony is that the book born from genuine desire often makes discipline easier. You’re not dragging yourself toward completion. You’re shepherding something that already matters to you.

The Courage to Be Specific

Generic books are easier to write because they offend no one and surprise no one.

Specific books require nerve.

They take clear positions.
They use distinct voice.
They embrace strong framing.

The book you want to write probably has a point of view that feels almost too sharp. You may be tempted to dilute it.

Resist that impulse.

Clarity attracts the right readers. Vagueness attracts almost no one.

Success Reimagined

What does success look like for the book you want to write?

Is it a bestseller list?
Is it intellectual satisfaction?
Is it a small but loyal readership that deeply resonates?

Be honest.

If your only definition of success is external validation, you may end up steering your book away from what makes it unique.

But if success includes integrity—finishing a project that feels true—then the equation changes.

You win the moment you write the book you meant to write.

Everything else is amplification.

The Strange Relief of Alignment

There is a subtle emotional shift that happens when you commit to the book you want.

The anxiety lessens.

Not because the path becomes easier. But because resistance decreases. You’re no longer arguing with yourself. You’re not negotiating between “should” and “want.”

You are aligned.

Alignment produces momentum. Momentum produces pages. Pages produce a manuscript.

A Practical Framework

If you’re stuck choosing between multiple ideas, try this:

List the books you could write.
For each one, imagine spending the next year immersed in it.
Notice which idea makes you curious rather than fatigued.
Identify what scares you about that idea.
Begin there.

The fear is not a barrier. It’s often a sign of growth.

The World Does Not Need Another Imitation

You can imitate style.
You can imitate structure.
You cannot imitate obsession.

The book you want to write emerges from your specific mix of interests, frustrations, insights, and odd fascinations.

No one else has that combination.

And that’s your advantage.

The Final Question

If you knew no one could mock you, misunderstand you, or ignore you—what would you write?

That answer is unfiltered.

Now ask a harder one:

What would you write even if some people did mock you?

That answer is braver.

The book you want to write is not necessarily the easiest path. It may not be the fastest to monetize. It may require you to shed older versions of yourself.

But it will feel alive.

And alive work has a way of finding its audience, even if it takes time.

So open the document you’ve been avoiding.

Write the paragraph that feels risky.

Lean into the hybrid idea.

Stop drafting the manuscript you think earns approval.

Start drafting the one that won’t leave you alone.

That’s the book worth writing.

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