Moving from external validation to intrinsic motivation

I went from, "I want to be an artist" to "I am an artist."

Me holding up my first traditional publishing contract with half of my advance. It was a celebratory moment in my life. Spring, 2015.

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When my first traditional book, From Grief to Grace, was published ten years ago, an older man from our former church shook his head and told me, “I wish I could write a book.” His tone was forlorn, regretful. He wouldn’t look me in the eye.

I stood silent for a moment, waiting to see if he wanted to say more or if we’d part ways. He shifted his weight but did not look up. I sensed he wanted my response, so I said gently, “You still can write a book.”

At that, his eyes met mine. He didn’t smile but appeared as if his time had passed, and he didn’t quite believe what I said was true, or possible. I continued, “It’s not easy to write a book, but if you feel in your heart you are meant to write one, then it’s never too late to begin.”

He shook his head. “I’ve always wanted to be a writer, but it never happened. Now I admit I’m a little jealous to hear you have a published book.”

I nodded, because I thought I understood what he meant. “I get that. Jealousy is a real and very human reaction when someone else is living a life we wish we had. I also think jealousy points us to what we really desire, what we’re really meant to do.”

He sighed and offered a weak smile before his departing comment, “Thanks. Maybe I’ll try someday.”

That’s what I thought when I was a kid. I thought someday I’d try to figure out what it meant to become an artist, that there must be some magical destination or at least orientation into the world of creative living. Artists, to me, were super-humans elevated on a pedestal that differentiated them from the rest of the ordinary world. Successful artists were those who had art shows and galleries and sponsors and apprenticeships. Successful writers retreated into the woods on a Guggenheim grant after completing their MFA.

Well, yes and no.

My avenue of becoming a writer has not been by way of conventional means. For many years, I hesitated to call myself an artist of any sort, because I didn’t have the credentials or prestigious awards to back up my claim. I just wrote. Because I had to build rapport with other writers, editors, and publishers before anything I wrote was published, I kept my desire secret.

While I built this foundation, I told myself I wasn’t really a writer. The reason is that I wasn’t receiving the accolades and validation I once did for my art. If you’ve read any of my recent posts, you know I was a budding artist as a child, and I won multiple contests for my (bad) poetry and drawings. Once that ended, I thought my potential as an author/illustrator had ended, too.

Then, in college, I learned about the concept of intrinsic versus external motivation. Let me explain.

In psychology, intrinsic motivation happens when we pursue an activity for the sheer delight. We enjoy what we do, period. Extrinsic, or external, motivation, propels us to perform for others in order to gain a reward: a prize, money, accolades, recognition, praise.

As a child, I continued painting, drawing, and writing, because I was rewarded for it. My teachers gave me an A+ and would gush to the class as they held up my hand-drawn book report cover. I entered a school-wide drawing contest and won first prize, which was money. I put my sketch for the school program into a pool of other contestants’ entries and got selected—then my parents would tell me how the other families raved about what a “great artist Jeannie is.”

Over time, I stopped creating for the sake of creating. Once I no longer won the affirmation or approval from others, I stopped creating at all. My insecurities as an artist—because I always questioned whether I really was an artist—stemmed from extrinsic motivation. I needed validation in order to believe I was good enough, or good at all.

Now I am 43. I’ve been a published author for over ten years, yet I made a pivotal shift in my creative journey about four years ago. Before then, I was branded as a Catholic spirituality writer on grief. I traveled nationwide to speak to groups about moving through their difficult and dark emotions rather than numbing, suppressing, or denying them. My writing was solicited by editors of publications I’d never heard of, and I built a busy freelance career for myself.

Then, COVID-19 hit us all. Many of the publications for which I wrote monthly folded. Some stopped paying their contributors, so I quit. After about two years, I didn’t have any freelance work left. And no one was knocking on my digital doorway to request my work anymore. I was bereft, once again, of the joy in creating and sharing my heart.

At the end of last year, I completely stepped away from all religious writing. I want to be clear about this: my reason for doing so has nothing to do with the value I see in it, but instead because I was called to move away from it. This included retreating from many online communities and social media platforms. I had a hunch I was supposed to start taking a closer look at myself—where I was in my life, what gifts or abilities I had to offer, and to whom.

It was time for a reevaluation.

That’s when I began drafting my first memoir, which I knew, at some level, I was going to write at least seven years prior. I had to start over when I walked away from the platform I’d constructed, and it still hurts. It’s hard to throw yourself into the ocean when you’re used to swimming in a pond. Confronting the feelings of invisibility, rejection, and self-doubt has been especially challenging for me.

But what has shifted the most in my life is this: I am writing for the love of words again. I write what is bursting in my heart. I share my thoughts or rhetorical questions on the page. I post the insights I’ve gained from my experiences. I do this more for the sake of putting into the world something I have to offer, with the belief that my offering is different than what others share—and that what we all share is equally valuable.

This is hard when you’re conditioned to perform, please, and perfect for others. It’s tough to step away and ask yourself what matters to you, what you believe is meaningful, and how you can shape something you hope will be important to others, as well. But that’s intrinsic motivation, and that’s what drives many powerful artists to keep putting into the world their vision, their emotions, and their message.

Lara Love Hardin wrote about how she went from heroin soccer mom to bestselling author who met with Oprah in her memoir, The Many Lives of Mama Love:

I realize suddenly that I’m tired of pretending I am anything other than who I am. People may love me or hate me, praise me or criticize me, reward me or punish me. All I can be is who I am now, and then work hard to become the person I most want to be. I’m tired of hustling for an approval even the great and powerful Oprah can’t really give me. I know what I’m looking for can only be found on the inside, and it’s going to be my job to keep finding it over and over.¹

Love Hardin is writing of her personal transformation from extrinsic to intrinsic motivation, from craving the approval of others to embracing who she really is. What I love about the excerpt here is that she mentions that not even being on Oprah’s show gave her the fulfillment she longed for. Only when she learned she had to be her own cheerleader, her own champion, did that internal shift take place.

A lot of us convince ourselves that we only arrive at a destination when we’ve checked certain boxes or climbed specific ladders or shaken hands with important people. I’m willing to bet that many who are in the limelight today, celebrities and politicians alike, feel empty if they have not done the challenging work of personal integrity: being true to yourself and honoring who you are.

Each of us is human, which means each of us contains rooms of mistakes, weaknesses, flaws, strengths, assets, and talents. We are each composites of what we both love and hate about the world. We are the shadows and the light. I don’t think we can fully embrace ourselves without first accepting our humanity and recognizing that we aren’t that different from the best, or the worst, among us in the world.

Because we are each the best and the worst, and the point is to showcase the best and learn from the worst. That’s how we continue to evolve, and that’s the pathway to doing what we love because it delights us.

1. Love Hardin, Lara. The Many Lives of Mama Love, pp. 428-429.