I’ve had a few of those days lately where the work feels oddly flat — not dramatic, not catastrophic, just that low-level sense of “what’s the point?” that creeps in when I’m tired or distracted or simply not getting whatever internal spark I think I’m supposed to have. And of course, whenever I notice it, I start doing the usual thing: hovering, hesitating, convincing myself that if I wait a bit longer the enthusiasm will return and everything will click into place again.

But if I’m being honest, it isn’t enthusiasm I’m waiting for. It’s a guarantee. A sign that the thing I’m doing actually matters and won’t collapse under its own weight the minute I commit to it. And it’s ridiculous, because I know perfectly well that nothing worth doing has ever arrived with a guarantee attached. Still, there’s a part of me that insists the work should feel meaningful while I’m doing it, that the feeling should come first, as if that’s how any of this actually works.

The truth, of course, is that the days when it feels pointless are usually the days when the work is quietly recalibrating itself — when I’m not getting the reward but I’m also not running away. They don’t feel good, but they’re rarely wasted, and I suspect they’re the ones that stop me drifting off into some fantasy version of the book I’d rather be writing, rather than the one that’s actually in front of me.

So the question I’m trying to ask myself — gently, without judgement — is whether this feeling of pointlessness is really a signal to stop, or just the usual wobble that comes whenever I’m inching towards something real. And I know the answer, even if I don’t always like it.

Writing it down so I remember tomorrow, when I’ll almost certainly forget and start the whole thing again.