Every week, someone asks me how to “become” a writer. They tell me, “I don’t know where to begin” in the hopes that I will finally unveil a secret known only to professionals in the literary industry. A secret that, once revealed to the uninitiated, transforms them into the elusive, mysterious creature that is The Writer.
In truth, there is quite a lack of velvet curtains and fanfare involved in becoming a writer. Most often it’s a quick and subtle thing, happening without the subject of the transformation realising what has occurred.
I tell each of these people the same thing. If you are writing, then you are a writer: whether it is on napkins or vintage typewriters that you exercise your craft, whether your claim is fragmented sentences sleepily spilled onto a notes app or whole, breathing novels ready for publishing. But this opinion—I must call it that, to my great displeasure—only serves to reassure. It is not necessarily advice on how to “get started”. For that reason, and because I desperately do not wish to be dismissive of anyone who comes to me for help, we can’t stop there.
We have all dealt with the dreaded blank page, that daunting expanse of nothingness that forces you to contend with your insecurities. But the only real way to get started is to… start. You can spend your days planning, reading, and learning about writing (and you should, some of the time) but you must also write. We don’t learn nor improve any skill without making mistakes first. It is from mistakes that learning comes. Your battle with the blank page need not be neat, or quick, it simply has to happen, and often the best way to get it done is to allow yourself to write badly.
Ask any of the authors who donate their time to the library what their first drafts looked like, and if they have any humility, they’ll likely tell you this truth. Everyone’s early writing is messy. Sometimes you have to write a lot of awkward sentences before ever coming upon the line that makes your words sing. The same can be said of entire manuscripts. Brandon Sanderson, a giant in the sci-fi and fantasy genre, says that between ‘97 and ‘99, before he was ever published, he wrote five bad novels. “But being good wasn’t the point.” The point, as Sanderson puts it, was to experiment and to have fun.
As a teenager, I wrote feverishly. So much of what I produced twenty years ago remains truly awful, and I gladly recognise it as such. I’m nonetheless proud of it. Those countless hours spent scribbling stories into the back of my maths book and on my mum’s discarded printer paper led me to college, then to university, then to a career in writing, editing, and teaching.
It also led to me being terrible at maths, but that’s another story.
Every week, someone asks me how to “become” a writer. They tell me, “I don’t know where to begin” in the hopes that I will finally unveil a secret known only to professionals in the literary industry. A secret that, once revealed to the uninitiated, transforms them into the elusive, mysterious creature that is The Writer.
Don’t expect to become a better writer by resisting imperfection. Gold is denser than the sediment of the rivers it’s sometimes found in. You have to run buckets and buckets of silt through a sieve and let the lighter stuff be washed away if you have any chance of finding the nuggets of wealth within.
Or, to put it more simply and without the metaphor: the more you write, the better you write.
Once you start finally putting pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard as it may be, develop a habit of it. I want to be clear here, though, that I don’t expect you to write all the time. A common piece of advice amateurs receive when they’re asking search engines “how to write” is to write every day. Usually a certain number of minutes or words per day. Unless you thrive under pressure, I discourage this. I have found that while it may successfully produce ample writing in the early stage, the longer you force yourself to do it, the less you will enjoy writing.
Many people who attend university to study their passions (creative writing, illustration, dance, acting, etc.) find that, upon graduating, they need to take a step away from art for a time. Studying it so intensely for so long has robbed them of that early passion.
As far as I’m concerned, you should never feel like writing has become a chore. Set yourself small, achievable goals if you must. This way, if you exceed them, it is because you are enjoying yourself. And isn’t that wonderful?
There is still an element of that advice you should bear in mind. Writing often, just not in such a regimented fashion, can be very beneficial to your progress. Even if all you do is a five minute stream of consciousness exercise, your work will improve and a habit will be born.
Put some variety into what you write, while you’re at it. Experiment with form, genre, perspective, technique, and so on. Allow yourself a little bit of time here and there to play with the art form. Your ongoing projects will remain refreshing and enjoyable to write or edit, and you may discover an element of storytelling at which you excel, or a form that you love but may never have tried otherwise.
Finally, find yourself a community. Not only will a group of fellow writers of various skill levels provide you with the motivation to write, but they will be your first editors. You can never be an objective critic of your own work. Either you will view your writing through a disproportionately negative lens, or a disproportionately positive one. Rarely, if ever, does an artist see their art for what it is. As well as that, you can’t possibly imagine what your ultimate reader, who will only ever see the final draft and not the dozens of versions leading up to it, understands about your work.
This is why it’s important to share your work in the earlier stages. If you have the funds and you’re serious about a project, hire a developmental editor. It is our job to read early works and advise you on what to adjust, what to cut, where to focus, and so on. The big picture stuff. But if you can’t afford such a thing, then I cannot recommend enough the value of writing groups and classes—even if it’s just a bunch of your artistically-inclined friends hanging out to talk about their stories every couple weeks.
Workshopping is, in my opinion, a deeply underrated practice. A fresh perspective on your work will always help in some regard. Even the practice of listening to feedback, regardless of whether or not you take the advice given, prepares you for the industry. Each of my classes is followed by a half hour workshopping session. I ask my students to bring their ongoing projects into class and swap with another student, read thoroughly, then provide constructive feedback to one another. I’ll tell you what I tell them every week: you don’t have to listen to all the feedback you get. Some won’t make sense, and some will be misinformed, but every now and then you will receive the kind of eye-opening, mind-blowing feedback that changes your work for the better. At last, you might understand how your writing comes across to someone who hasn’t spent days perfecting this one specific line, scene, chapter, what-have-you.
If, after all of this, you’re still unsure how to get started, don’t be afraid to ask someone else. You’re going to hear a lot of advice from a lot of different professionals. We’re a bit like that, as contradictory as the language we so adore. Like constructive critique, you’re not always going to agree with the people dispensing advice. The same suggestions don’t work for everybody. Keep asking, keep experimenting, until you find what works for you.
However, if the thing still holding you back is a fear that nobody will want to read your story, then I’m sorry to tell you you’re quite wrong. There are eight billion people on this planet. Someone, somewhere, needs or wants to hear what you have to say. I sure do.
So, off you pop. I’ve long given up trying to make a dent in my reading pile. Let’s see how big we can make it, instead.