You Don’t Need More Time — You Need Permission (And I’m Giving It To You)

Writing your book doesn’t require quitting your job. It just requires believing it matters.

I used to think I didn’t have time for big things.

Not because I lacked ambition, but because the calendar told me no. My days were already full — work, starting up a writing company, family and social obligations, and so forth. The idea of taking on something as massive as starting up grad school studies (I recently started work on my MBA) felt like dreaming about climbing Everest while standing knee-deep in laundry and work emails to which I hadn’t yet replied and attempts to make (and inevitably cancel) social plans. Grad school wasn't realistic. It wasn't “responsible.” And yet here I am, back in school, knee-deep in spreadsheets and discussion boards and exams. The work didn’t disappear to make room for it. Life didn’t hit pause. I just made a different kind of decision — not about time, but about priorities.

And I want to tell you something, especially if you've ever said, "I want to write a book, but I don't have the time," or "I'm not a real writer," or "I wouldn't even know where to begin."

You're not alone. But you're also not stuck.

Starting grad school reminded me of the mental trap we all fall into — the belief that we can only pursue big goals when life gets easier. That once the kids are older, once work settles down, once we retire or figure out the perfect morning routine, then we’ll finally start that project we've been quietly carrying around. But life doesn’t lay itself out like that. There’s no neon sign that flashes now is the right time. There’s only the choice — in the tone of Shakespeare — to begin or not to begin. That is the question.

In the first week of my MBA program, the instructor introduced a framework that felt like it could have been part of a writing course. It was meant for managerial accounting, but it applies to anyone staring down a creative goal with equal parts excitement and dread. The idea is simple: start with purpose — your data, what you know to be true — and understand your end result won't be perfection. What are you actually hoping to do — and why does it matter to you? Make assumptions, your best guess based off what you know, and run with it.

That stuck with me in a variety of ways. So many of us think we need to be brilliant to start. That our writing has to be polished, or our ideas fully formed, before we can let ourselves sit down and begin. But that's backwards. You don't write because you're ready. You write because something inside you won't stay quiet. You write to figure it out.

Here's what grad school has taught me so far, in between the business cases and time management hacks: momentum beats mastery. I don't always feel smart. Sometimes I’m turning in an assignment thinking, “That was rushed. That could have been better.” But I turned it in. I kept moving. I’ve aced some of the exams, and bombed others. And over time, the things that once intimidated me in the realm of corporate finance — reading balance sheets, tackling spreadsheet formulas, joining a class discussion with people who seem like they have it all figured out — they get easier.

Writing is the same. The people who finish books aren’t the ones with the most talent or the most free time. They’re the ones who keep going even when they feel messy, even when the words don’t flow. You don’t need to write for hours a day. You don’t need to take a sabbatical. But if you’re still sitting around waiting for someone to give you permission — that excuse just expired. Because I’m giving it to you. Right here. Right now.

You have permission to write badly. To write inconsistently. To write something that doesn’t match the image in your head yet. You have permission to write while exhausted. To write while unsure. To write while afraid it’s all pointless.

Because here’s the truth: no one is going to tap you on the shoulder and say, “You’re ready now.” The voice that says you’re not good enough, not ready enough, not disciplined enough — that voice doesn’t go away. But you can write anyway.

Sometimes people ask me how I manage everything. How I balance work and school and life and still find time to keep building. The answer is that I don’t always do it gracefully. I fall behind. I doubt myself. I drink too much coffee. But I’ve stopped letting that be the end of the story. I’ve stopped using imperfection as an excuse to stay stuck.

And that’s the same mindset shift I wish every would-be writer could experience. You’re not trying to be perfect. You’re trying to show up. You’re trying to honor something you care about, even if it doesn’t make sense on paper. Even if it never turns into a bestseller or a publishing deal or anything more than the quiet satisfaction of knowing you finished what you started.

But I’ll tell you something else. Once you do start, once you let yourself take the first imperfect step, something strange happens. You begin to see that writing isn’t a luxury. It’s not frivolous. It’s not even about productivity. It’s about alignment. It's about making space for the part of you that still wants to create, even when life is busy, even when you're tired, even when everything else feels more important.

There was a night a few weeks into the semester when I had an assignment due and I genuinely thought about quitting. I was behind, I was overwhelmed, and it all felt pointless. I stared at the screen and thought, “What am I even doing this for?” But instead of walking away, I paused and asked myself a different question. “What if this struggle is part of the process? What if it’s not a sign I’m failing, but proof that I’m actually doing something hard — and growing through it?”

That’s what writing your book will feel like sometimes. It’ll be frustrating. It’ll feel clumsy. You’ll reread what you wrote and cringe. And then, slowly, you’ll notice something else. A line that sings. A character who surprises you. A moment that feels like truth. And you’ll realize that all of it — the self-doubt, the missed writing days, the chaos — it’s part of the story you’re telling.

And maybe it’s the story of someone who finally made room for their dream.

If you're reading this and you’ve had a book idea in your head for years, I want you to know it’s not too late. You don’t need to have it all figured out. You don’t need a publishing contract or a finished outline or a quiet cabin in the woods. You need one page. You need one sentence. You need one hour — or fifteen minutes — that belongs to you.

Start there. And if you were waiting for permission?

You’ve got it.