On Writing

How do you become a writer? Partly, it’s like that old joke about how you get to Carnegie Hall—practice. Writers write. They don’t talk about being a writer. They write. They don’t brag about all the words in their head. They write. And they don’t dream of all the money they’ll make. (The operative word being dream.) They write. Do you see a pattern here? 

You don’t need fancy pens, expensive laptops, or a garret to steal yourself away to. You need to write. You don’t need solitude, either, though it’s nice. You do need to show up everyday at your writing space and put words on paper or in a document, be it twenty-five words, two hundred, or two thousand. You also should have a notebook or index cards—or whatever you like to write on—and a pen or pencil with you at all times when you’re not at your writing space, to write down a thought, a line of dialogue, a vivid description, anything and everything that might show itself to you. Because if you don’t write it down, as sure as the sun sets in the west, you’ll lose it. And unlike the sun, it won’t come back up in the east the next morning. It will be gone. The muse can be kind, but she’s also unforgiving. Don’t mess with her.

How do you become a writer? Make mistakes. Chances are you won’t write a perfect, beautiful, breathtaking piece of writing the first time you put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. But that’s fine. Embrace it. An imperfect, so-so first draft means you’re writing joints are moving. It means you’re stretching and warming up. Have fun with it. Keep going. Write whatever comes into your head. Free write, cluster, or just plain prattle on the page. Get it all out. Then, rewrite. Writing is rewriting (thank you Hemingway, or E.B. White, or whoever said that). That’s where you’ll create your story. That’s where the magic happens.

How else do you become a writer? By reading. Writing and reading are inseparable. Reading is not an indulgence, saved for the beach on your summer vacation. It’s part of your job as a writer. Read for content, for language, for structure, for style, for rhythm, for the music—and for the silence—between the words. And most importantly, read for the joy of it. 

A lot of my students ask about writer’s block. I don’t really believe in it, not to the extent that it’s this amorphous enemy that globs onto the writer and destroys one’s ability to write. I can’t buy that. Besides, that’s giving it too much power. Of course there are times when words don’t come, when ideas vanish, when writing hides. But I think this is a normal part of the process. What to do when a project goes fallow? Work on something else. It’s why I keep several manuscripts going—both fiction and nonfiction—plus a bunch of poems. 

Writing is hard. It can also be scary. You’re putting your bare self out there. It’s not easy to let that vulnerability show. Keep reminding yourself this is just a draft. No one writes in stone. Think of Anne Lamott’s ****** First Drafts chapter in Bird by Bird. She’s right, they are. Then remember Hemingway, or E.B. White, or whoever, and move into revision mode. 

The important thing? Just keep writing.