It starts off as a tiny thought, just a glimmer perhaps that teases somewhere in the recesses of neural pathways, a bird working its way through the shell to break out, until the thing appears, perhaps fully formed, perhaps not, to make itself known, heard, now living.
Even with the idea, fertile and nascent in its arrival, there requires some consideration: is it good, exciting, interesting, but above all, is it something I desire to pursue?
Endeavoring to sit down and create something, depending on the person, takes a bit of preparation and planning. The writer may be taken by a fervent passion to get it out this very moment, by having paper and pen by the bed, scribbling furiously lest the vision of the thought disappear. Other times, it is a slow burn, one that comes to the mind slowly evolving and developing as the person ponders it. Perhaps there is an in-between.
Regardless, the steps have now been undertaken to prepare and create, and then, the planning must be done, depending on what we’re writing. Historical epics certainly need some level of research and exploration. There’s also the need of practicing the skill of writing. One cannot know if an idea works until it has been put to paper, for it is in the act of making physical what is intangible that determines if it is genius or a phantom fancy. Then there comes the execution.
We learn to write by doing, over and again, as with any skill, as well as by reading, reading a wide variety of items to stretch, to learn, appreciate a clever turn of phrase, to expand in some way. Our own perceptions are narrowly limited and very much through a glass darkly. Often the mark of an untested writer is by asking them what they read.
Years back, when I was working as a reporter for a small paper, we had a slow news week, which wasn’t uncommon. A woman reached out to us to do a feature on her as a local author self-publishing her own novels. As I spoke to her on the phone, she spoke in an entitled and condescending way—dismissing her English professors and the query responses that she had gotten back from major publishers, that her work needed edits and to be polished. When I asked her what she read and took inspiration from, she told me that the ideas were her own, and that she wasn’t a reader. Put off by the woman’s attitude, I looked up a few of her novels on Amazon and cringed internally at what she’d created. The writing was generic and overly simplistic, jumping right into the action without establishing much in plot, setting, or characters. Looking through the rest of the crime procedural, it was also clear that she understood nothing about criminal investigations.
I suppose this is why it is easier to write fantasy or science fiction based out of worlds entirely of one’s own making—though the best writers will have some formative basis of the real world to inform their understanding of behavior, relationships, and culture.
One of the frequent issues I see in young writers on substack (not speaking to age, but experience) is the impostor syndrome of “Will anyone read what I write?”
Even for the worst writers, the above example included, there is always some kind of audience, no matter how small. Bad or terrible writing may even be sought out by people simply to mock it, or in some way, it becomes camp to its audience, who enjoy tearing down and critiquing—sometimes because they enjoy the ego boost of feeling superior, but others who like a good laugh, together with friends, who appreciate a piece that is so trashy that in some odd way, it speaks to them and is good, subjectively in their view.
Writing requires a leap of faith—though it also does necessitate learning style, form, good use of diction, imagery, tense, voice, tone, plotting and pacing, etc.—to be considered great. Contemporary fiction has taught me that no matter how tawdry or silly—certainly from scanning through the myriad finished and unfinished fan fictions out there in the world—there is always an audience for whatever is written. Someone somewhere will read it, even if it is only one, and though they make not care for the piece, will appreciate it simply by virtue of their curiosity in exploring what has been written.
The endeavor to write is always a challenge; it’s a risk that the creator takes that someone is going to like it, or worse, they’re going to tell you you’re writing is shit. Many creatives look at a criticism, and crumble, because they’ve overidentified with the work as being central to them as a person.
Last year, while walking through an amusement park, there was an old Italian sculptor making flower bouquets out of clay. My husband and I stayed long enough to talk with him, and it became clear there was a certain level of disdain for the work he was making—every day, the same types of bouquets of clay flowers, mass-produced by him, and sold at a premium mark-up.
“They’re hot dogs,” he declared quietly.
Even so, they were beautiful hotdogs, and I marveled at how effortless his skill was that he could make a bouquet on a base in about 15 to 20 minutes, using toothpicks and other tools I have no name for to roll, pinch, twist, flatten out or texture the petals and leaves.
In one sense, creation is personal, and should be, as it is an extension and expression of your soul. I don’t recommend taking the jaded response of an old potter, used to thousands of people walking past him in the high heat of summer, and never wondering at the skill developed over thousands of hours over a few decades. His disillusionment is understandable. But there does need to be a minor sense of detachment that the creations failure isn’t definitive of who you are as a person.
Creation is a process of trust—both for yourself to grow in your talents and skills, and in the audience. Work that people created years before may never be noticed. Sometimes though, it can be rediscovered with fresh eyes, perhaps not in your lifetime. That is the immortality of what we leave behind, entrusting it to the future. Maybe by an adoring public, or even, the children and other descendants that follow.
Ultimately, what we write, we write for ourselves. We are the audience we are serving. As the old saying goes, if you don’t see the kind of book you want to read, write it. Writing for a specific audience can be tricky, as humans are fickle and project their own ideas of who they think you are as the creator. Often, the work can take on a new life, which can be a good thing, but may end up becoming the possession of those who’ve attached themselves and their own meaning to the work, even entirely missing the point of what the work was trying to communicate.
It is an unsatisfying task, following the fickle trends of other people’s tastes and capitalizing on it. In doing so, we become inauthentic, as you’re attempting to curry the favor of people whom you barely know or have the most nominal relationship with. If you trust in the process of the writing and continue pushing forward, eventually, like any entrepreneurial endeavor, something will take off.
It may not lead to mansions full of blow, bitches, and gold, but it may be enough to satisfy you that the work you made, and the people who appreciated it, was worth the endeavor after all.
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I took ceramics for three years. My teacher used to go through the drying rack and if a piece was not thrown or built to the proper thickness, bottom not beveled, rim not trimmed right, etc. he would throw it back into the wet barrel. When a student would complain he would say, "Don't fall in love with your work. If you can do it once you can do it 100 times and better." He was a great teacher. No matter what the medium, a piece is not finished until it's finished.