I want to be a writer. More accurately, I want to write. But getting myself to actually sit down and do it is another story entirely.
Most mornings follow the same pattern. My dogs wake me up far too early — usually around 6 a.m. I feed them, then feed the wildlife (chipmunks, squirrels, mallard ducks, several crows, and a turkey), make coffee, empty the dishwasher while the coffee brews, then settle into my chair with my Android phone. I play games for an hour and a half while some overly familiar television show drones in the background — usually something I have already seen a dozen times.
By 8 a.m., I often feel like I need another nap.
Not emotionally devastated. Not overwhelmed. Just lethargic. Heavy. Flat.
This morning was no different.
I did not want to write.
Not in the dramatic, tortured-artist sense. Nothing was wrong. I wasn’t distressed. I wasn’t spiralling. I was simply uninterested. The kind of mental inertia that arrives quietly and settles over everything like fog.
This has become familiar territory for me.
The frustrating part is that, intellectually, I often know there is no obvious reason for it. I’ve slept reasonably well. I’m not sick. My schedule is manageable. Yet the engine still refuses to turn over.
For years, I interpreted this as a motivation problem. Or worse, a personality flaw. A lack of discipline. Evidence that perhaps I simply did not want success badly enough.
Now, I’m beginning to suspect it may be something else entirely.
So today became an experiment.
Instead of trying to force myself to write through sheer discipline, I try to read about writing. Without realizing it, I was beginning a personal experiment to see whether I could indirectly activate my interest. Rather than opening Scrivener and staring accusingly at my unfinished chapter, I picked up a book about writing. No TV, reduced game time, and a book.
Actually, that’s not entirely true.
I picked up two books.
The first one — the “serious” one, the one I thought I should read — did absolutely nothing for me. In fact, it made things worse. I couldn’t stay focused on what it was saying. I reread the same page several times without absorbing it. Intellectually, I could appreciate that it was likely a good book, but my brain simply would not attach to it.
Every page felt like pushing a shopping cart through wet cement.
Normally, this is where I begin mentally arguing with myself.
Come on. Just be disciplined. Normal adults can read books they aren’t immediately fascinated by.
But instead of grinding myself into dust, I switched books.
The second book was different.
Within a few pages, I could feel something changing. My attention sharpened. My imagination flickered awake. I became curious. Then engaged. Then quietly excited.
And here’s the interesting part:
I did not suddenly become motivated to continue reading the book.
I became motivated to write.
It was as though the book acted as a bridge between inertia and activation.
That distinction feels important.
People often talk about motivation as though it appears first and action follows afterward. But I’m increasingly unconvinced that this is how my brain works — and I suspect many ADHD brains work similarly.
For some people — mostly neurotypicals, or as I jokingly call them, “muggles” — discipline creates momentum.
For me, momentum often creates discipline.
That sounds like a subtle difference, but I think it changes everything.
I remember trying to read The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People years ago. I couldn’t get past the first chapter once it started emphasizing discipline as the central key to success. I remember thinking, Well, I’m doomed.
Traditional productivity advice often assumes that if you repeatedly force yourself through resistance, motivation will eventually follow. And to be fair, sometimes that works.
But with ADHD, there can be what feels like a neurological dead zone — a state where effort alone does not ignite engagement. The task remains emotionally and cognitively cold.
What sometimes does work is what I think of as borrowing activation.
A conversation.
A fascinating article.
A chapter in a novel.
A piece of music.
Someone else’s enthusiasm.
The brain catches a spark from nearby energy and redirects it toward the intended task.
That is what happened today.
And even more interestingly, after spending time reading about writing, I no longer needed the external source. This afternoon, after seeing clients, I expected I might need to return to the book to reignite the feeling.
Instead, reading my own writing was enough.
The engine was already warm.
I think this also connects to something else I’ve been noticing lately: state cues.
There are certain environments, times of day, and routines that my body seems to associate with different modes of being. Morning often carries the flavour of inertia for me. Evening carries a greater openness to immersion. Some cues unconsciously signal “effort,” while others signal “play,” “curiosity,” or “rest.”
Perhaps part of the challenge is not laziness or lack of discipline at all.
Perhaps sometimes the brain simply needs a transition ramp.
And maybe, for ADHD minds especially, that ramp is less about force and more about ignition.
I don’t think this means discipline is irrelevant. I still showed up. I still intentionally created conditions that might support engagement. But instead of trying to bully myself into creativity, I experimented with attraction.
Curiosity instead of force.
Activation instead of accusation.
Oddly enough, it worked.
References & Further Reading
Barkley, R. A. (2010). Taking Charge of Adult ADHD. New York, NY: Guilford Press.
Clear, J. (2018). Atomic Habits: An Easy & Proven Way to Build Good Habits & Break Bad Ones. New York, NY: Avery.
Csikszentmihalyi, M. (1990). Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience. New York, NY: Harper & Row.
Hallowell, E. M., & Ratey, J. J. (2021). ADHD 2.0: New Science and Essential Strategies for Thriving with Distraction—From Childhood Through Adulthood. New York, NY: Ballantine Books.
Korb, A. (2015). The Upward Spiral: Using Neuroscience to Reverse the Course of Depression, One Small Change at a Time. Oakland, CA: New Harbinger Publications.
A Taylor'd Life 