Writing is often romanticized as an act of pure inspiration, a divine calling that effortlessly leads to success. Many famous writers would argue, though. Writing is more complex: one has to constantly fight battles with self-doubt, rejection, and fear. Many aspiring writers begin with a sense of urgency and idealism, believing that their words will immediately resonate with the world. But the journey is rarely so simple.

Anne Lamott knows a lot about this and can relate. She grew up in a home where books were cherished, and reading was a daily ritual. Her father, Kenneth Lamott, was a writer who lived and breathed his craft. He dedicated himself to writing every morning, regardless of how late he had been up the night before. Anne believes his passion for writing was contagious.

She also wrote compulsively, for the college newspaper, for herself, and for the sheer act of putting thoughts into words. Despite earning top grades in English, she dropped out at nineteen, convinced that she needed to experience life outside academia to become a serious writer. Reality struck hard. Lamott became a temp worker, stuck in mind-numbing clerical jobs, suffocating under paperwork. Every few months, she sent a short story to an agent, always receiving encouraging but refusals. Then, when she was twenty-three, her father was diagnosed with brain cancer.

It was devastating, but in grief, she found herself writing. That was something her father always told her to do—document your experience. Her initial notes, messy and random, evolved into a collection of connected short stories. With her father’s encouragement, she sent the manuscript to an agent, and this time, something clicked. A publisher made an offer. At twenty-six, she had her first book published.

Early reviews were brutal, editors dismissed her work as sentimental and self-indulgent. Even as later reviews praised her work, the expected triumph never fully arrived. Each subsequent book followed a similar pattern: moments of excitement, and later the sobering reality that literary success does not guarantee personal fulfillment. Yet, through it all, she kept writing. Not for fame or wealth, but because the act of writing itself held meaning.