The Effort Is the Reward, but the Artefact Is the Reminder

There’s a contradiction I can’t shake. I spend a lot of my free time writing small stories and essays—not because I’m trying to publish them or prove anything, but because I like circling around an idea until it surprises me. For me, the fun is in the chase: pulling at a theme, testing it, seeing what breaks.

That part feels enough. Late at night at my desk, or on the walk with a half-formed idea buzzing in my head, I feel like I’ve already won. The act itself—the wrestling with words and questions—is the reward.

But here’s something I’ve been thinking about lately: if nothing survives—no draft, no fragment, not even a single line in a notebook—the whole thing feels wasted. As if the moment never happened.

I say the journey matters more than the destination, and yet unless the journey leaves a souvenir, I can’t convince myself it was real.

So I keep circling the same question: is effort enough on its own, or does it only count if it leaves a trace?

Most of my stories begin as questions. Not plots or characters—just questions. What would a superintelligent AI do if it ever got bored? What does the constant need for novelty do to a relationship?

These questions trail me on morning walks and keep me awake at night. I test them, poke at them, see if they can hold the weight of a story. In those moments, the act itself feels like enough.

But if nothing gets written—no draft, no fragment, not even a single line—the whole thing slips away like a dream I forgot to record. I know I spent hours wrestling with it, but without a trace, it’s as if it never happened.

When I do manage to write something down, even if it’s bad, I feel at peace. I can look at the page and think: Yes. That happened. I was there. I wrestled with this. But when I don’t, it feels like talking to myself in an empty room, and the silence afterward lingers longer than it should.

That’s what it looks like, lived out: the joy of the chase, followed by the despair of vanishing footprints.

I’ve seen creativity explained in diagrams: the habit loop, the flow state, the mantra that if you “show up every day,” the muse will too. I’ve read those books. I’ve tried to follow them. But none of them explain why effort feels hollow unless something survives it.

Take intrinsic versus extrinsic motivation. The theory says if you love the process, you shouldn’t need a reward. And I do love the process. I love chasing questions that may never have answers. Still, I need the residue—a line, a draft, a scar left behind by the struggle. Without it, the effort drains away like water through a crack.

Even the cliché about “the journey, not the destination” falls short. I want to believe it. But what is a journey without a trace of arrival? Even a pilgrimage leaves behind worn sandals and a story told at dinner tables. Effort needs an anchor.

The best way I’ve found to explain it is through ritual. Lighting a lamp, folding a paper crane. The act matters most, but without the ash of the incense or the crane on the table, it feels unfinished. The residue doesn’t have to be beautiful. It just has to exist.

Effort as fire, output as ash. The fire matters more, but the ash is what proves it ever burned.

The longer I sit with this paradox, the more it feels less about writing and more about being human. We want our efforts to mean something, but meaning alone isn’t enough—we also want proof. A trace.

Camus wrote that we must imagine Sisyphus happy, endlessly pushing his boulder with no hope of finishing. The effort itself is the meaning. But if he left no dent on the hill, would we even remember him? The myth survives because of the trace.

Maybe that’s what art is: residue. Fossils of our attempts to make sense of the world. We struggle, and the by-product—whether a story or a single sentence—is what outlives us. The fire is personal. The ash is what gets passed on.

And this need for residue is generational. A grandfather planted trees whose shade he never sat under. Your parents might have photographed your every birthday, not to perfect the picture but to make sure time didn’t slip away unnoticed. The act matters, but the record keeps it alive.

So maybe this paradox is less about writing than it is about dignity. To try, and to leave behind something that says: I was here, and I struggled with this. Even if the trace is imperfect. Even if it’s only ash.

Most days, I circle questions that never make it to the page. By morning, they’re gone—like dreams I forget before I can write them down. Other days, I leave behind a fragment, a line that proves the moment was real.

When the fire burns, I want the ash. Not because it’s beautiful, but because it’s proof I was here, and that for a moment, I tried.

— Avi

P.S. If this left a trace with you, you can leave me one too—buy me a coffee. ☕