“People say, ‘What advice do
you have for people who want to be writers?’ I say, they don’t really need
advice, they know they want to be writers, and they’re gonna do it. Those
people who know that they really want to do this and are cut out for it, they
know it.” —R.L. Stine
The first writing
class I ever took was in college. But by the time I set foot into the
broom-closet sized classroom of my freshman year Creative Writing course, I had
already been writing for seven years on my own. I had never read a book on how
to write, nor had I ever conducted an academic study of fiction. I did my best
to go into the class with an open mind and I checked my pride at the door. At
the time I was just beginning to step out of a very bad case of chronic
writer’s block, and I felt only hope that a college level class, with all the
inspiration and discipline that it could bring, would surely cure me of my
troubles.
Nevertheless, even
though I was “unschooled” in the art of writing, I had learned seven years of
hard lessons from personal experiments, both successful and failed, and I had
the portfolio to back it up. I had studied under the most respected names in
the industry by reading widely and with an absorbing hunger that taught me what
storytelling could be – what it should be. In my childhood I had consumed
novels far above my prescribed reading level, and though I may not have
understood all the words, I learned what writing should sound like: the flow, the dialogue, which descriptions were gold
and which were trite, how a character should be introduced to the reader bit by
bit, as if revealing a secret.
I didn’t believe,
when I sat down in that broom-closet, that I had all the answers. It didn’t
take me long to discover that the professor did not have the answers either.
Perhaps I should not
have been so surprised that we clashed; not immediately, of course, but over
the span of the semester I grew more and more frustrated at the professor’s
teaching style, her concept of how to grade creative work, and even worse, her
consistent use of her own portfolio as prime examples of the proper way to
write.
And before I get
carried away with my disdain of any of the above, which are ultimately
irrelevant, I want to focus on those final grievous words. The proper way to write.
“There are no laws for the novel. There never have
been, nor can there ever be.” —Doris Lessing
Dear writers, let no
professor, friend, family member, colleague, reader, or established author ever tell you that there is a proper way
to write. Stop up your ears and leave them to their bitterness,
because people who think that good writing can be nailed down to a series of
specific rules are usually so enamored with their own technique that they begin
to believe it is the only technique.
Where I was seeking
specifics, I received vagaries. I was told that my work needed to be edgier – a modern writing term that in
my mouth soon became an obscenity. I began to silently rebel against my
assignments by purposefully writing the most ridiculous things I could come up
with. I dragged out a piece I had written in high school that had been inspired
by George Orwell’s 1984 and contained
my first ever written torture scene. Despite the fact that my writing style had
greatly improved since I had written it, I received high marks for that piece,
simply because it was risky. In
pieces that I crafted anew for the class, I began to imitate the professor’s
own techniques, almost in satirical fashion, and predictably again received
high marks. I tested the waters ruthlessly and with a growing sense of venom as
I saw again and again that my tests were passing my expectations with bitter
colors.
I scraped together
an A in that class by giving the professor what she wanted instead of
developing my own voice.
In every writing
class I ever took with this professor I encountered the same problems and
employed the same techniques. But these courses were not a total waste of my
time – by no means! Even when you are writing something you hate, you are
learning and expanding. And it was in these classes that I developed my own
philosophy on how great writers learn to write.
The truth of the matter is, no one can teach
you how to write.
They can only give
you the tools. You can be taught grammar and spelling; you can be equipped with
the most creative of vocabularies; you can be instructed in the traditional
story arc and basic techniques in characterization and dialogue.
But there are only
two things that you can do that will without fail raise you to a level of
expertise in your writing and set you apart from your peers, and that is
actually engaging in writing and reading.
“The greatest part of a
writer’s time is spent in reading, in order to write; a man will turn over half
a library to make one book.” —Samuel Johnson
Every time you read
a book, you are gleaning knowledge from the words, whether you realize it or
not. Your brain will take note of the phrases you like best and file them away
for future use. In the same way you will notice things that you think sound
silly or are ineffective, and you will consciously attempt to avoid making the
same mistakes in your own projects. All the voices of writers you admire will sculpt your own into a unique blend that will sound comfortingly familiar to readers of the genre even while it stands out on its own.
When you write, you
are constantly growing. Getting the words on the page exercises your mind,
tests new phrases, explores new character traits. The more words you put down,
the higher your chances are of hitting a winning combination that can someday
be honed into a story.
The classes that I
took with my creative writing professor were undirected. I was not given any
tools that I considered to be as useful as the ones I had gained just from
reading on my own, and in that way the professor failed to teach me anything.
But what I did gain from the experience was, as I had hoped, the discipline to
write often. A writing course that requires you to present work on a regular
basis gives you a concrete structure to practice your craft, and even in spite of your own prejudices against what you are writing, it is the process that benefits you more than the product.
So if you want to be
a better writer, then read often, in and out of your genre, and write
constantly. Seek the basic tools you are missing. Always have faith in your own
voice. And write.
“Just write every day of
your life. Read intensely. Then see what happens. Most of my friends who are
put on that diet have very pleasant careers.” —Ray Bradbury
