The Emotional Cost of Writing

Writing that pays and writing that costs

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I am a professional ghostwriter. It’s difficult.

I write a lot of books, several at a time. It costs me a great deal of creative energy.

Which, I’ve learned, is emotional energy.

There’s a certain rhythm to this work: entering someone else’s story, capturing their voice, becoming them, living inside their theology or trauma or dream until it sounds like them and not like me.

It’s holy work. I’m thoroughly convinced of that. None of my clients is trying to put one over on anyone. They give me credit for the work. They just aren’t writers. Writing a book is a highly technical skill.

God gives messages to His people, but He doesn’t always call them to the vocation. That’s what we scribes are for. And it’s an honor.

It is holy work, but it’s draining work. By mid morning, I feel like I’ve spent all my words in service of others and have little left for myself, or even for God. Often at that point, I have to stop and go with Him for a while and recharge the tank. Thanks be to God that usually works and I can go for another round.

But over time, I’ve noticed something: not all writing costs the same. Some writing empties the tank.

But some writing fills it.

The writing that costs tends to carry deadlines, expectations, outcomes. It’s good, needed work, but it feels like pulling something heavy up out of a deep well while someone else is trying to pull it back down.

It demands coherence, empathy, and excellence all at once, and that takes bandwidth.

The writing that creates energy usually begins in curiosity or prayer. It’s slower, smaller, sometimes pointless in the best way.

It may be a journal paragraph just to tell the truth. A line that doesn’t sell or teach or prove anything, but reconnects me to the joy of being alive and attentive.

Every writer of faith needs both kinds. But if we spend too long producing without replenishing, we start to lose the sound of our own soul.

So if you find yourself weary, don’t stop writing, just shift which kind you do. Write something that doesn’t need to impress anyone. Write a sentence that costs nothing and gives something back.

That’s one way I can return to center. That’s how I remember that words aren’t just my job; they’re a way I breathe with God (not the only way, but one way).

Try This Week: The Two Pages Practice

Set aside fifteen or twenty minutes somewhere quiet. Grab a notebook or open a blank document.

Page One: The Resistance Page

Start with Resistance, that invisible force that rises every time you sit down to do hard writing work (I learned this concept from The War of Art by Steven Pressfield).

Pick the project that triggers it: the draft you keep avoiding, the assignment that feels dull, the idea that once excited you but now feels heavy. This is the writing that costs you.

Begin by naming the resistance itself:

“I don’t want to write this. I feel bored, distracted, done. Here’s why…”

Write for five to ten minutes, without editing or judging. When the timer rings, stop. Breathe. Notice what showed up: frustration, fatigue, maybe even a flicker of honesty you hadn’t seen before.

Page Two: The Renewal Page

Now, turn to something that creates energy. Forget deadlines. Write what you want to write. Describe a moment from today that made you smile, a prayer you can barely form, or a sentence that feels alive.

Write for another five to ten minutes. Let curiosity and gratitude lead.

Return to Page One

When you finish, return to that first piece. Reread a few lines and see if any spark has returned. You may find that after naming resistance and touching renewal, you suddenly have strength for what once felt impossible.

To paraphrase Pressfield: Resistance never disappears, but once you see it, it loses its power. And in faith, we can add this truth: what resists us may also be where the Spirit most wants to meet us.

Jeff

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