How Not to Write

Dearest reader,

The dangers of writing cannot be understated. I am putting myself at risk by merely creating this document for you, but I feel it is too important to be left unsaid. Ahead, I have outlined for you the five keys necessary to avoid becoming a writer in any capacity. Adhering to these simple principles is tantamount to evading a most terrible fate. Writing may be the worst thing a person can do. It distracts the mind and soul, and fills one’s head with all sorts of outlandish, foolishly optimistic, and often otherworldly ideas –– detracting from the crucial daily thoughts of work, grocery shopping, and dusting one’s collection of Italian lace doilies. It is an affliction, a condition which only grows stronger with practice and consideration. To write, to engage with this maudlin behaviour, is to welcome melancholy into your spirit. Allow me, good friends, to warn you now before it is too late.

Do not decide to write. Do not decide what to write.

It is much easier not to write if you have no idea as to what you would write about. If you can narrow down your area of interest from fiction to nonfiction, you may have already gone too far - never mind honing in further, considering form and style, perspective and voice. Do not take a single moment to consider whether there is a certain genre of work that entices you as a reader, and whether or not you may have something to contribute to the canon.

Indeed, even making the decision to write may hinder your efforts in not writing. Perhaps, if you find yourself in this position, it is already too late for you. You have become a writer.

Alas, despite my best efforts, I failed in heeding this critical advice. I tried to ignore the desire to write, nestled inside my chest as my own private shame, by completing my undergraduate studies in film. Though deep down I felt I was betraying my passions, it seemed the correct choice in order to avoid becoming an author like so many before me. The problem, however, is that we humans are fallible creatures, and I had taken elective classes on writing outside of my main field of studies.

Oh, what torture these classes were! To sit around with my peers, discussing authors and books, narrative and structure. How dare these tutors try to tempt me, to lure me away from my studies of cinema by forcing students to workshop their own stories. No, I protested, do not have the effrontery to convince me to write! Do not inspire me with pretty words, nor unearth my most particular endearment towards speculative fiction. I had to get away, for my thoughts had turned to devouring every piece of young adult fantasy fiction I could get my hands on. I became obsessed with great authors like Kristin Cashore and Leigh Bardugo. I began to note the repeated tropes, and how they could be twisted. How I could twist them.

I graduated from university, but it was too late. Those slippery, conniving tutors had burrowed beneath my skin. I knew if I wished to continue not writing, I had to do something, but by this stage I was weak-willed. I got as close to writing books as I could without actually creating anything, thus ensuring that I could not fall further from my path. Finally, I was safe.

I became a bookseller.

Do not actually sit down and write.

Intrigue at the craft of writing is one thing. A sin may not be a sin if it remains only a thought. One of the most critical aspects of not being a writer is the firm resolve to not sit by a desk. Throw away your keyboard, hide all of your pens. Find contentment in all other aspects of your life, no matter how dull your career may seem. A writer can be anyone who writes, thus avoiding this unnatural habit is the key to our success here. The moment you put pen to paper and begin crafting (even a poorly written sentence counts, for sentences have a nasty habit of improving with each one you produce) it is over. Do not even attempt to make up a story to amuse yourself, or because that one thing you wish to read cannot be found elsewhere, for many good folk have been lost to writing simply for pleasure’s sake.

This is sound advice. The turning point, the point of no return, for me, was the culmination of a deep sense of dissatisfaction with my career. Bookselling was fine in theory. The smell of the store, the allure of the tomes upon the shelves, the feeling of shepherding other minds towards magnificent works of fiction, which all drove me initially, began to wane. It seemed cruel to be surrounded by the creations of so many poor, lost souls, and to be reminded that I had barely escaped a similar fate myself. And, I will dare to admit, the rudeness of certain customers had begun to grate upon my nerves. Who were they, to speak to me as they did, without knowing that I was barely containing my own desire to write with each passing day?

I am not too proud to admit that this is where I failed. Dismally. I began to write, every day, with a goal of achieving 1500 words by the time I retired for the evening. Some days, the words came quickly, pouring from some deep recess of my mind. Other days, I clawed for every single word, labouring over each punctuation mark. Slowly, the narrative built.

I was writing.

Writing for what, I did not know. Writing, perhaps, to stave away the discontent in my heart. All I knew was that each day, I would achieve something, building towards a larger story whose end was still unknown to me. I tread into a world of magic and fae, which seemed somehow more real and vital to me than that in which I lived, and which I had titled The Weaver. All the while, I knew that I had taken a step which could not be taken back.

If only I had known then that one story would not be enough. For writers, you see, are addicts. You may finish one project, and think yourself finally free, only to realise that the words still hold you in their grip.

Do not edit.

If you have already trudged this far down the path of writing, I offer you my condolences. You have sat down, and with no small amount of effort compiled a large collection of words, which all more or less lead in some direction. Now, you must take that heaving stack of paper filled with your innermost ideas and dreams and set it on fire. Burn it away into ashes and smoke. Delete your files, empty the trash on your computer. Expunge your email, all access to Cloud storage, and move far, far away. The risk of not doing this is that you may be tempted to show another person, perhaps one who has never succumbed to writing, what you have crafted.

To show another person what you have written is no small thing. You cement yourself as a writer in the eyes of another, and thus your secret is out into the world. Before, you may have been able to keep your habit secret, nestled away in a locked drawer like a letter from an old lover. Now, the secret is out, and with it, so too are your faults. Amongst the thousands of words you have are myriad issues – typographical errors, errant commas, inconsistencies in the colour of your protagonist's eyes. As with any heinous act, one should never wish to write, but if you do, you may as well do it well. After all, if you were so inclined to rob a bank, you would not attempt to do so in a manner that would embarrass you, or result in your getting caught. You would make a plan, study, and amend that plan where necessary to maximise your chances of success.

The editing process is long, laborious, and likely to make your skin crawl with self-consciousness. It is to be avoided at all costs for anyone who desires to remain a non-writer. Non-writers do not examine the structure of their narrative, noting the rises and dips in action, nor do they pause to consider if the promises made at the beginning of their story feel satisfactorily achieved at its conclusion. Does the hero of the story leave somehow altered, is the villain punished? Worse, still, is the careful examination of every sentence. You are not a writer, do not engage with the musical flow of your work. Do not consider sentence length and structure, spelling and punctuation. Only writers care, and we must not let them win.

This is yet another example of where I failed. I finished my work, then managed to put the whole monstrous thing aside. For three months. I thought to let the heat of my passion fade, the lure of the world I had created dull. Even so, I could not entirely dismiss my thoughts on the piece. I pulled it back out and began to pick it apart with a clarity I had not possessed during the shameful fervour of writing. Page by page, I edited. I got to the end, convinced I was finally done with the whole thing, then went through the text a second time. Since we are being honest, I will admit that I found it overwhelmingly satisfying to note that there were only a handful of errors that had gone unnoticed the first time, and I promptly succumbed to my desire to correct them.

I had written. I had edited. I had failed. Surely there could be no more punishment?

Do not try to get your work published.

The marvellous thing about the craft of writing is that there are an endless number of places where you can choose to cease engaging with it. Ideally, you will have heeded my advice from the very beginning and stopped there, but if I am prone to folly and weak-mindedness, then surely there are others out there, too. It does not matter if you stop before you write a single word, or if you stop halfway through a project. As long as you stop, you have done it.

Now, I warn you, dear reader, this is perhaps your last chance to prevent the world from knowing that you have fallen prey to writing. You may have written, edited, and even deigned to show your closest friends what you have done (under a blood-sworn oath of secrecy, of course), and yet you do not feel satisfied. Do not panic. This is simply a malicious trick on the part of writing to tempt you into continuing. It is the desire to publish your work, the promise of fame, recognition, and perhaps a very small amount of money. Fortunately, for many failed non-writers, the financial gain to be had from the craft is negligible, which manages to dissuade some, and they stay safe and happy in far more respectable fields.

Once your writing is published, the whole world knows your secret. Fortunately for you, the gatekeepers of traditional publishing know this, and they will do everything in their power to help prevent you from making this grave error in judgement. Publishers, in their great magnanimity, have created a pleasing tourney of sorts, a set of logistical, market-driven, complicated hoops through which would-be writers must jump, with no hope of a soft landing on the other side. You must research, first, to find the appropriate publisher. If sifting through the internet and scouring websites has not turned you off, you must then adhere to strict submission guidelines. The publisher may challenge you to acquire a literary agent (which is as difficult as getting a publisher, but with the added bonus of still not having a publisher), or they may not be taking submissions at all. If you have the poor luck of finding a publisher taking submissions in your genre, then you must create a query letter, consider comparative titles to your own work, list your intended audience, and pitch your work.

Arduous does not begin to describe this process. It is best left unattempted. Abandon all desire to write, for you will likely fail to get published time and time again. If you are lucky, you will get a rejection letter. Likely, you will get nothing. I commend publishers for their cleverness here, for saving so many of us from becoming writers in earnest. Only the most tenacious, the most affected, the most addicted are likely to lose all hope at non-writing here.

I must have been ill indeed, for I engaged with this process for two years after the unfortunate completion of my manuscript. Publishing is slow moving, and does not favour the author’s whims. Rejection after rejection piled in, and with each one my heart gladdened with the thought of finally being able to quit for good. After all, nothing forces an addict's hand quite like the item of addiction simply becoming impossible to attain. I could not quit writing on my own, but if I was simply denied it…

And yet, I would be lying to you if I told you that I was not delighted, ecstatic, beyond thrilled when my offer of publication arrived in my inbox.

‘Sorry about the delay in getting back to you about your submission, The Weaver. In fact, we have been considering it in the office for many months and we can't seem to let go of it. Therefore, if it is still available, we'd love to publish it.’

Remain an island.

Thus, my truth is revealed. I have failed at every turn to become anything other than a writer. Though there were, as I have outlined, numerous places where I could have ceased the miserable habit, I found myself unable to ignore these desires. Rather than focus on some other more respectable, more lucrative career, I have become the very thing I dreaded. Oh, what wretched misery!

And the misery continues, for once you have tasted the truth of writing and publishing, it will consume you. One book is soon to be out in the world, yes, but what of the next? Was that piece of prose the last decent one I will ever produce? What if my publisher had been imbibing a little bit too much the day they chose my novel, and in actuality it is the kind of garbage that will be mocked ceaselessly by the masses until the end of time?

Perhaps it is not too late to return to my non-writing ways. In many ways, it is far easier not to write. Certainly, far better for you. If you do not write, you are not always battling against a sense of inadequacy, of feeling the imposter, of fearing that no one will care. Your mind is not turning over words, fretting over the next idea, or wondering what the world might look like if you were its creator.

If you write with any degree of consistency or intent, you will inevitably find yourself in a position of meeting others with similar affiliations. Avoid them at all costs. Do not network, do not enter short story competitions, do not attend literary festivals. Do not immerse yourself in this perilous world. Repeat after me: thou shalt not listen to podcasts about writing. Thou shalt not take a class. Nay, thou shalt not even watch YouTube videos about story structure or narrative theory. Thou shalt not insert yourself into these depraved communities, for this is where the wicked writers, both forthcoming and established, converge.

If you do any of these things, you will inevitably make connections, or perhaps even friends, and these are the kinds of friends who will encourage your participation in the craft, offer you hope in times of writerly uncertainty, and even critique your work. They will make you a better writer. Cast them off without abandon. Remain an island. After all, islands famously cannot write.