Writing isn’t fair. In his memoir, “On Writing,” Stephen King bluntly states, “while it is impossible to make a competent writer out of a bad writer, and while it is equally impossible to make a great writer out of a good one.”
Now, I believe in positivity as much as the next person, but I am not here to argue with King –– yes, we are on a last-name basis –– that optimism can outlast truth. He isn’t wrong.
Take voice, for example. Arguably the most important register of writing, it is also the cruelest. The ugly truth is that voice isn’t earned, it’s given. Sure, you can refine it. You can study syntax and rhythm, editing your sentences until they pop.
Yet, you can’t invent a pulse when one doesn’t exist. Hence the ugly truth: some writers spend 15 years developing a voice others can find in one week.
However, do not despair, everyone. You might notice, if you read it again, the quote doesn’t fully make sense. You might ask me, “Otto, what exactly is the word ‘while’ doing there? Isn’t that an incomplete sentence?”
You’d be correct. It’s because I cut it. Alas, I’ve gone to the liberty to fully reveal King’s words.
“While it is impossible to make a competent writer out of a bad writer, and while it is equally impossible to make a great writer out of a good one, it is possible, with lots of hard work, dedication and timely help, to make a good writer out of a merely competent one.”
The golden truth is revealed. You can improve. Not into the next American literary giant, probably not into a genius either, but into something sharper, wittier, more yourself. So, in the interest of our short time together, let’s figure out how.
The simple answer is you should read and write more. It isn’t glamorous advice –– again, writing isn’t fair –– but, in the absence of natural talent, there aren’t many other cards you can play save for hard work. There is no enchanted MFA serum, no pixie dust that will transform your writing overnight.
For most writers who face these problems, reading is the sole most important thing for promoting growth. You can’t write well if you don’t read. Reading is how you absorb instinct, how you learn rhythm, pacing, structure and syntax, all of which will eventually transition to your writing.
When you begin to read widely, the mind starts to subconsciously internalize how sentences move, how dialogue is structured, how pacing works. In short, you begin to feel what good writing sounds like, far before you can produce it.
Perhaps most importantly, reading multiplies experience. Reading broadens your emotional and intellectual ranges, allowing access to lives you have not lived or ideas you would not otherwise be exposed to. If the best writing stems from experience, then you cannot write well if you don’t know what good writing feels like. You should read more!
Now comes the other piece of the puzzle, the physical act of writing.
As important as reading is, it means zilch if you don’t translate it into words on a page. Writing is where you transition your learned instincts into muscle memory. It is a trying process –– bad drafts, lots of revisions, sentences that almost work. But it should teach you patience, or at least endurance, amidst the frustration.
Writing teaches stamina. It’s one thing to read 5,000 words in a day; it’s another thing entirely to write even 1,000. Now try doing that every day. It’s time-consuming and it sucks sometimes, but through the effort, you’ll start to uncover your own tics, habits and blind spots, things you can only find through repetition.
Reading and writing must co-exist – one is pointless without the other. Writing without reading is like trying to play jazz having never listened to Louis Armstrong or Duke Ellington. Reading without writing is like studying those same musicians and never picking up an instrument.
Over time, all the repetition, the writing and reading begin to blur together, until something strange happens. The sentences begin to feel like you. It’s a quiet transformation until it isn’t. One day, you’ll wake up, sit down and notice that the sentences that once felt forced feel natural, that the dialogue you could never land just works. And when that happens, you should feel incredible, because you fought so hard for it.
“ If you don’t believe me, believe King. The chapters that surround this absurd statement make his true intentions clear. ”
Why, after all, do you believe he is writing this memoir? Not to brag, crush or mock aspiring writers, but to reach them. King is speaking specifically to the “competent” writer: the one devoid of natural ability but possessing a relentless work ethic.
His “toolbox” chapters exist for them. They aren’t grand (no pixie dust!), but they are real, teaching grammar, sentence structure and dialogue. King, like myself, isn’t promising genius, instead, stripping down writing to the barest fundamentals, offering the idea that though talent is uneven, effort is not. So, pick up the tools and write.
Maybe you won’t be the next Stephen King, Cormac McCarthy or Jonathan Lethem. But you’ll be something, that’s for sure.
Otto Fritton PZ ’27 –– unfortunately dubbed “OF” by his close friends –– is an avid Peanuts fan. He finds Charles M. Schulz’s portrayal of Charlie Brown and the Little Red-Haired Girl fantastic; the perfect example of unrequited love. He wonders if Charlie will ever truly succeed, and suspects that’s exactly the point.
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