Hate writing? Don’t turn to AI—here’s a better way, in 3 simple steps

“I hate writing… should I leave academia?”

“How can I be good at something I really don’t like? Every minute of it is a struggle.”

These were two separate responses I heard from two clients when I assured them that, as assistant business professors, they were now essentially professional writers.

Both had reached out to me because they lacked confidence in this critical aspect of a successful career in academia. Both had expected that I’d give them frameworks and information that would help: templates, tools, explanations of the rules that define academic English (spoiler: there are none). Both were considering turning to AI to help “draft” (i.e., write) their papers, but they were admittedly nervous about the embarrassing consequences of outsourcing this important work to such an insufficient lackey. 

I’m so glad they reached out to me first.

What actually turned both of these clients into prolific, successful writers (and thus,rising stars in their respective fields) wasn’t a rigid writing schedule or yet another volume of writing advice—and it definitely wasn’t an AI assistant. 

It was a fundamental shift in their emotions around writing. 

Here’s how we did it, in three simple steps. 

Step 1: From Dreaded Chore to Regular Habit

Question: What do you actually dread about writing? And how can you acknowledge that with compassion, but still show up anyway?

My clients’ admissions that they absolutely loathed this career-making activity made me think of several astonishingly similar revelations I’d read from some of the world’s most successful athletes:

• Tennis star Andre Agassi, who wrote in his autobiography, "I play tennis for a living even though I hate tennis, hate it with a dark and secret passion and always have."

• UFC fighter Nick Diaz, who said, "I never loved fighting. I never wanted to fight.” 

• Muhummad Ali, who famously shared, "I hated every minute of training, but I said, 'Don't quit. Suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion.'"

So do you have to suffer to be great at something? Not necessarily. But clearly, you also don’t have to be jumping for joy about it. You mainly just have to do it.

Across all the professors I’ve worked with, the most successful ones write a lot, yes—but they aren’t all people who love writing. Rather, what they do share is the consistent habit of sitting down to write. Regardless of how boring, stressful, stupid, painful, or fruitless they feel it to be on any given day, they still show up enough to become increasingly practiced and prolific writers. 

That’s the biggest secret underlying their success: a regular practice of putting butt in chair and fingers on keyboard that no amount of skill, insight, or talent can ever replace. 

So start with a commitment to sit down for 4 writing sessions per week; this seems to be the sweet spot that allows you to build a consistent new habit, but also gives you breathing room to prioritize other things in any given week. 

Commit to this schedule for 60 days. By the end of this period, you’ll either be utterly miserable (and have your answer as to whether you really want to do this for the rest of your life)—or you’ll have dialled back the emotional resistance immensely, turning painful self-flagellation into relatively painless habit that you can now explore and optimize.

Case in point: Ever met a kid who loathes brushing their teeth? (I’ve met plenty.) 

Ever met an adult who hates it? (I haven’t.) 

After making the activity a habit for years, the emotional energy is gone. The positive consequences of doing it are well-known and deeply appreciated. What was once an evening-ruining event to be dreaded and wailed about is now just routine self-care with obvious short- and long-term benefits.

Here’s the most important part about this step: these regular writing sessions should only be as long as your emotions allow before you’re struggling with consistency. 

In other words, if committing to four 15-minute writing sessions per week still has you missing some of those sessions, they’re too long. Go down to 5 minutes—even 2. The main thing is that you’re able to keep your promise to yourself and actually show up. Far too many writers are focused on optimizing a habit they haven’t actually instilled yet. Instill it first with micro doses of the hard thing. Then we can quickly move onto the next step.

Step 2: From Regular Habit to Small Pleasure 

Question: How could you make writing even 1% more enjoyable today?

As we instill a habit that we know will benefit our future selves, we want to improve our emotions around it on two fronts at the same time: dialing down the negative feelings that have us avoiding it, while also dialing up the positive feelings that would make this habit a tolerable—even, dare I say it, enjoyable—part of our week. 

So within a few days of committing to regular writing sessions, start thinking about the tiny things that could make this time to yourself a little bit more of a pleasure. A fresh new notebook beside you for brain dumping distracting thoughts that arise as you type? A nice-smelling candle that signals focus when you light it at the start of each session? A big cozy sweater or expensive coffee that you only enjoy while writing? 

Again, we’re really trying to establish this time as a foundational habit, so give yourself whatever you need to make it happen. You know the habit is guaranteed to produce positive results eventually (that’s why you’re constantly telling yourself you should do it more often)—so how can you find even a smidgen of joy and pleasure in it? 

This gradual expansion and interlinking of positive feelings with a beneficial habit is the heart of what most people think of as self-discipline: it’s not about beating yourself into submission, it’s about making life fun and easy for your future self. 

As an example of this same approach used outside of writing, I used music (which I love) to commit to regularly lifting weights (which I hated). I knew the health benefits of strength training; I knew I was headed for a slew of health problems if I remained as weak and sedentary as I had been for the first 30 years of my life. So I made myself a deal: I could only listen to music during workouts. 

That was enough to keep me coming back for four 10-minute sessions a week until, shockingly, one day I found myself wishing they were longer. Eventually, my desire to binge-listen to all the 90s albums I grew up with overpowered my dislike of lifting until I became someone who’s done four 60-minute strength-training sessions a week for over 5 years now. 

If you’d told 30-year-old me that I’d one day be showing up to a gym regularly, let alone touching the equipment, I would have laughed even harder than everyone else who knows me. But that’s how powerful habit-building can be. It won’t just defy your past beliefs about what’s possible or probable for you—it will actually shift your identity, from “I wish” to “I am.” And that’s where our third and final step comes in.

Step 3: From Small Pleasure to Mastery

Question: What do you gain by writing daily? What do you lose?

If you're a business professor (really almost any type of professor), writing is not optional. It is the career. 

Communicating your research is what gets you funding, tenure, visibility, influence, and more. No amount of brilliant teaching, selfless service commitments, or charismatic conference presentations can substitute for a publication record that demonstrates high-quality research. 

You probably know all this. So why aren’t you writing more?

Because it’s hard! 

And it’s hard because:

• Great writing takes dedicated time and energy (but less than you think—more on that below)

• It requires training in rhetoric and academic writing conventions that very few schools offer 

• It’s a difficult means to a murky end: the rewards of consistent writing are delayed and uncertain

• Writing exposes problems that ideating, discussing, and presenting don’t 

• It spikes the perfectionism baked into academic culture (writing must be mediocre before it can be brilliant, and most academics are terrified of feeling or looking even a little mediocre)

• The bar for publication in A-tier journals is sky-high and constantly moving

• Writing sometimes comes at the cost of things you might not even be consciously aware of protecting (hence the 2-part question at the start of this step, which is meant to surface any unconscious obstacles that might be impeding your identity as a prolific writer; e.g., “I lose the ability to hide.” “I lose the defense that I haven’t actually tried consistently or hard if I fail.” “I lose precious time with my family.” “I lose control over my work.” And so on.)

None of these things leave one feeling motivated and positive about writing after a long day of teaching, grading, meetings, data analysis, or any of the other 500 things that most professors do in an average week.

In other words, we find ourselves back at our starting point, tackling tough feelings about this critical activity. 

BUT, importantly, now we have a plan for those feelings. We know they never go away, but they also don’t stop us from doing what we know we need to do. 

Once you understand the process that underlies every impressive achievement—choose to commit to the habit, reduce emotional resistance to establish the habit, find the positive to continue/expand the habit, and keep going—you hold the keys to mastering any skill, including writing. There are no limits and there’s no risk of failure: you can iterate through this process as many times as you need to for as long as you want. 

And now the fun part begins. Because now there is value in turning to all of the info on optimizing your growing skill (info that was, frankly, nothing but a distraction when you were struggling to establish the habit at all). Now that we know how to show up and (at least sort of) enjoy writing, we can learn how to write well. We can discover our unique writer’s voice. We can use writing effectively, to test and hone our thinking and to persuade audiences of the value of our innovative ideas. We can have fun with language and structure, trusting ourselves to write faster and self-edit with confidence.

You don't need to love writing. But finding even a small thread of consistent, pleasurable engagement with it may be the most practical career decision you make. This is how you turn what you “should” do into something you do—and do well.

Ultimately, the time you spend writing should be commensurate with its value for your career as a business professor: 1–2 hours, 4–5 times a week will be transformative. 

But if that goal is miles away from where you are right now, start small. Swap procrastination and late nights of binge-writing for regular micro-sessions that signal your new identity: you are a writer. A writer writes regularly. Even the best writers don’t write well every time, nor do they consistently love writing. They simply practice the habit of writing, regardless of how they feel about it. 

So the next time you're staring down a blank page and your fingers itch to head over to that AI chat window, remember: what you're feeling isn't a writing problem. It's an emotional problem. And no tool, shortcut, or ghostwriter can truly solve it for you. The path forward is to build a reliable relationship with your own writing, one small step at a time. That's what will increasingly separate the professors who struggle to be heard in the growing din of AI-generated outputs from those who gather acclaim, achievements, and influence.

If you'd like support establishing this habit or breaking through the emotional blocks that have kept you from the writing career you're capable of, I'd love to help. Book a consultation with me and we’ll figure out where to start together.