Real Talk: Shut Up and Be Ungrateful

I was standing in line at Ralph’s, half-listening to the guy in front of me complain about the price of eggs. As if inflation personally offended him. He turned to me, expecting solidarity, and I just nodded. Not because I agreed, but because I was too busy thinking about my first-world problem, whether my latest chapter was good or just another pile of word vomit.

That’s when it hit me: Writers are always told to be grateful. Grateful we have the time to write. Grateful for every reader, even the one who left a three-star review with “meh” as the only comment. Grateful that AI hasn’t made us obsolete—yet.

Well, screw that. I’m here to tell you that maybe, just maybe, the best thing you can do for your writing is to be ungrateful. Not in a whiny, self-pitying way, but in the kind of way that fuels you. The kind that makes you push harder, demand better, and never settle for mediocrity.

1. Gratitude is Overrated. Try Discomfort Instead

Writers are told to “Be thankful for what you have and appreciate the process.” You know what gratitude does? It makes you comfortable. And comfort is the enemy of great writing.

Think about it. Every story worth reading comes from struggle. Amalia wouldn’t exist if I hadn’t wrestled with the ghosts of my own past. Obsessed wouldn’t have the same punch if I had just sat back and accepted the world as it is. The best writers aren’t the ones sipping herbal tea, journaling about their gratitude. They’re the ones haunted by something, scratching at the walls of their own minds, desperate to get the words out.

Discomfort is where the magic happens. So next time you feel that itch, that gnawing dissatisfaction with your work, don’t silence it. Lean into it. Let it push you to be better.

2. Stop Thanking Your Readers. Earn Them

“Be grateful for every reader,” they say. But let’s be real, readers don’t do us a favor by reading our work. We do them a favor by giving them something worth their damn time.

Imagine if Stephen King sat around thanking every reader instead of writing The Shining. Imagine if Márquez just expressed gratitude instead of giving us One Hundred Years of Solitude. You don’t need to beg people to read your work. You need to write something that demands to be read.

So instead of whispering thank you into the void every time someone glances at your book, ask yourself: Did I earn their time? Did I give them something they couldn’t put down? If the answer is no, don’t grovel. Write better.

3. Envy Is a Hell of a Motivator

You ever read a book so good it makes you mad? That’s the kind of ungrateful energy you need.

I remember reading Blindness and feeling two things at once: admiration and seething jealousy. Saramago wrote something so raw, so frustratingly brilliant, that it made me question my own existence as a writer. Did I wallow in self-pity? No. I let that envy light a fire under me.

Envy isn’t a sin. It’s fuel. Every time you see another writer killing it, don’t just sit there saying, “Wow, good for them.” Get mad. Get inspired. Then get to work.

4. Don’t Settle. Demand More from Yourself

They say to appreciate the small wins. Celebrate every finished page. And sure, pat yourself on the back. Then rip it apart and make it better.

The moment you start settling is the moment you start dying as a writer. Every time I finish a chapter, a part of me wonders if it’s good enough. That’s not insecurity. That’s evolution. The best writers are never satisfied. They’re always reaching for something just out of their grasp.

So be ungrateful. Never settle. Demand more from yourself than anyone else ever could.

The Big Picture: Embrace the Hunger

Gratitude has its place, sure. I’m grateful for whiskey. I’m grateful for late-night writing sessions where everything clicks. I’m grateful for the readers who get it. But I refuse to let gratitude lull me into complacency.

Stay hungry. Stay ungrateful because the best writing doesn’t come from comfort. It comes from the fire.

 

Final Note: The only thing I’ll be grateful for is a donation, but only if you think it’s worth it.