What’s the point of your book?
That’s the question that lingers, isn’t it?
It hovers over your shoulder, silent but insistent, waiting for you to pin it down.
You want to write your book — have wanted to for years — but when you finally sit down, your mind goes blank.
A kind of static buzzes in your head.
What should I write about? you ask, as if the answer is hiding behind a locked door, and you just need the right key.
I can’t tell you what to write. That’s not my place.
But I can tell you this: a book without a purpose is like an empty house — looks solid from the outside, but inside, there’s nothing to keep you there.
No warmth, no reason to stay.
You need to know why you’re writing.
Not a flimsy reason, not a vague “I want to inspire people” (though that’s a nice sentiment).
No, you need a clear reason, something that keeps you writing when the words feel heavy and your faith in the project thins out like bad coffee.
So, why are you writing this book? What do you want it to do?
Maybe you want to share knowledge, pour everything you’ve learned into pages so someone else doesn’t have to stumble blindly like you once did.
Maybe you want to leave something behind — a footprint, a whisper, a marker that says, “I was here, and this mattered.”
Maybe you want to shake people awake, challenge their thinking, make them pause mid-sentence and reconsider something they thought they knew.
Or maybe, just maybe, you’re writing because you want to reach out across space and time and say, “I see you. Do you see me?”
Some people write to build their name, to carve out a space where they can be heard. A legacy.
A book is weighty. It makes people pay attention.
Others write to fight — to defend a belief, champion a cause, refuse to let something slip quietly into obscurity.
Some just want to entertain, to make readers laugh, cry, feel something sharp and real, or stay up far too late, unable to put the book down.
And then there are those who write to guide, to illuminate, to take someone by the hand and say, “Here, let me show you the way.”
These are all good reasons. Real reasons. But they only matter if you know which one belongs to you.
So ask yourself: What should your book do?
Who should it reach? What should they take from it?
And if you don’t have the answer yet, don’t panic. Let it sit. Let it breathe.
The answer won’t come in a rush of clarity. It will creep up on you — while you’re washing dishes, walking the dog, staring out the window at nothing in particular.
And when it does, when the purpose feels like something solid under your feet, reach out. I’d love to help you shape it, carve it, bring it to life.
Writing a book isn’t just about words.
It’s about patience, about returning to the page even when the thrill of the first idea has worn off.
It’s about pushing past the doubt, the inner critic, the thousand little distractions that whisper, “Not today.”
The best books are born not just from talent but from sheer persistence.
Some days, the words will flow like a river, and other days, they’ll come out in stubborn drips.
Keep going.
Trust that even the bad writing days are leading you somewhere.
And remember this: you don’t have to do it alone.
Every great writer, from the poets to the novelists to the thinkers who shape history, had someone — a reader, an editor, a mentor — who helped them refine their vision.
If you’re struggling to find the shape of your book, to define what it is you want to say, reach out. Let’s talk. Let’s figure it out together.
