Writing 1,000+ Words A Day Is Hard. But That’s Why It’s Worth Doing.

To be the noun, you have to do the verb.

A man typing on his laptop. Photo by Vitaly Gariev from Pexels.

I recently studied National Novel Writing Month, better known as NaNoWriMo. The challenge encouraged aspiring authors to write a 50,000-word novel in the month of November, which worked out to roughly 1,667 words every day.

Progress updates started showing up from thousands of people almost immediately. About missed targets, unfinished chapters, and evenings spent squeezing in a few hundred words before bed. Some writers fell behind during the first week. Others spent entire weekends trying to catch up. But by then, many had already written more words than they normally managed in months.

NaNoWriMo isn’t around anymore. After years of financial difficulties, declining trust within parts of the writing community, and a series of controversies that damaged its reputation, the organization eventually shut down.

It’s a shame.

For a long time, the challenge gave writers a reason to open a document and start typing. Some participants reached 50,000 words. Others stopped halfway through. Plenty never came close to finishing a novel. Yet every November, thousands of people spent a month doing something they’d wanted to do for years.

Perhaps that’s something worth paying attention to. Because at least for me, writing every day changes my relationship with the work. The first few sessions often feel awkward. I also spend more time staring at the document than adding anything useful to it. But a week or two later, I’m opening the same document and getting started much faster than before.

Then something incredible happens once the habit becomes routine.

I spend less time wondering whether an idea is worth pursuing. I stop treating every draft like a final exam. And after enough repetition, turning an idea into a rough first draft starts feeling like a normal part of the process rather than some major event that requires the perfect conditions.

But I’ll be straight with you…

A month of daily writing won’t turn anyone into a bestselling author overnight. It can, however, produce thirty days of practice. And as I’ve learned from personal experience, thirty days of consistent practice can move people much further forward than thirty days spent waiting for the “perfect moment” to begin.

Whatever the heck that means.

I’ve tried to write at least 1,000 words every weekday since 2019. And one thing I’ve noticed during that time is that it’s surprisingly difficult to predict which articles will end up doing well. Some come together in less than an hour and attract thousands of readers. Others take several days and barely get seen.

The other day, I was scrolling through my archive and trying to make sense of how much had accumulated over the years. More than 1,200 articles on Medium. Around another hundred on Substack. A few led directly to opportunities like writing for Business Insider, amongst other great sites. Some still bring in readers years later. Plenty disappeared into the void almost as soon as they were published.

I didn’t know that at the time.

When I was writing them, most didn’t feel particularly significant. I’d finish an article, give it one last read-through, and hit publish. A few were written before breakfast. Others happened at 5 p.m. because I still hadn’t reached my word count for the day.

I didn’t wake up one morning with 1,200 published articles behind me. Instead, I wrote one piece on a Monday. Then another on Tuesday. A month went by. Then a year. Then several. And all along, the total kept growing while my attention was focused on whatever I was working on that day.

And if you want my honest take?

That’s kinda the whole point.

“Amateurs sit and wait for inspiration, the rest of us just get up and go to work,” wrote Stephen King.

Now think about what that means.

Most of the opportunities I’ve had from writing can be traced back to articles I nearly skipped. Pieces written when I wasn’t particularly excited about the topic. Articles published after I’d read through them once and decided they were good enough to leave alone. Had I skipped those sessions, the articles wouldn’t exist. The readers wouldn’t exist.

And damn… neither would my large portfolio.

Austin Kleon once said, “lots of people want to be the noun without doing the verb. Let go of the thing that you’re trying to be (the noun), and focus on the actual work you need to be doing (the verb). Doing the verb will take you someplace further and far more interesting than just wanting the noun.”

The more I think about it, the more I think what Austin said is true. Because most people aren’t short on ambition. They have things they’d like to do, places they’d like to go, and projects they’d like to finish. Maybe it’s writing a book. Maybe it’s starting a newsletter that’s been sitting in the back of their mind for years. Or maybe, it’s something else entirely.

The problem tends to show up somewhere else. They look at their calendar. Then their habits. And for one reason or another, the two don’t always tell the same story.

At what point does someone become a writer?

After publishing their first article?

Their hundredth?

And who gets to make that decision?

Back when I started typing words on the internet for a living, I assumed the answer lived somewhere in the future. Maybe I’d become a writer after “enough” readers showed up. Maybe after some income milestone. Or maybe after I’d accumulated enough accomplishments that nobody could reasonably argue otherwise.

Then I started noticing something.

Bestselling authors like Austin Kleon rarely spend time wondering whether they’re writers. They’re usually too busy trying to finish the next draft before dinner, or squeezing in a few paragraphs before work, or staring at a blinking cursor because the article still isn’t done. Meanwhile, I’ve met plenty of people with genuinely good ideas who have been planning to start writing for years… but still haven’t got round to it yet.

Years.

That’s the word that gets me.

Most people can picture themselves starting something next week. Next month feels reasonable too. Even next year doesn’t sound all that far away when you’re making plans.

Then you blink.

One year becomes two. Two becomes five. A project gets pushed to next month, then after the holidays, then when life settles down a little. Eventually, you realize the dream you wanted to pursue has been sat on the backburner far longer than you intended.

Looking back, I think that’s part of why writing 1,000 words a day has been worth it for me. Every evening ends with an answer. Maybe the article was good. Or maybe it sucked. But at least one question has already been settled.

“Did I write today?”

Yes.

That makes me a writer. And often, the confidence from knowing I’m doing the verb to become the noun is a lot more meaningful than having an article go viral.

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