“Being a writer is a very peculiar sort of job: It’s always you versus a blank sheet of paper (or a blank screen) and quite often the blank piece of paper wins.” – Neil Gaiman
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Frequently, when I meet people who are aware of my profession as a journalist, they tend to pose the clichéd question: “How did you become a writer?”
I find myself reluctant to repeat my story, yet I must clarify it time and again.
During my high school years, I realized I possessed a talent for writing. While anyone capable of writing, including my peers, can be labeled a writer, the ability to write well is an entirely different skill.
Whenever our English teacher assigned us a formal writing task, I approached it from a unique perspective. At the time, I was unaware of the reason behind my desire for originality. My classmates often remarked that my work was incorrect, as it deviated significantly from the examples provided by our teacher.
Upon discovering the situation, our teacher took the opportunity to clarify the matter with the class. “His writing stands apart from yours because he is expressing himself in his unique style,” she remarked. Following this, she delivered a comprehensive lecture on the concept of style.
Nevertheless, my “biggest break” came when the same teacher invited me to compose an essay for submission to a regional writing competition. “Why have you chosen me?” I asked, feeling uncertain. “I am merely a junior, and I am certain there are more qualified candidates among the seniors.”
Despite my reservations, my teacher was resolute; she had decided that I was the one she wanted. After considerable persuasion, I eventually agreed. Although I did not win the contest—my very first attempt—it ignited a passion within me to pursue writing more seriously. I dedicated myself to refining my craft.
Not satisfied with my progress, I enrolled in a correspondence course while in college. During this time, I began contributing to Mod, a national magazine. To my delight, my short article was accepted for publication. When it was released, my mother bought several copies, and I was astonished to see my byline featured in a national magazine for the first time.
Despite receiving numerous rejection letters thereafter, I never considered abandoning my endeavors. Much like a battle-scarred soldier, I persevered in my writing. Eventually, I discovered the proverbial “gold” at the end of the rainbow, which occurred when I began contributing to the Ramon Magsaysay-awarded Press Foundation of Asia.
So much for that.
A reporter, trying to track down the wellspring of the creative process, asked American writer, novelist and playwright Edna Ferber on why she writes. Her reply was once startling and satisfying: “Because it is less agonizing to write than not to write.”
“The only important thing a writer needs is a subject,” American theater critic Brooks Atkinson said. “What the reader hungers after is not accomplished craftsmanship nor even correct grammar but a frank report of the things a writer has done, seen, and thought. None of these can be learned in the library or classroom. They have to be learned in the unsheltered world of living where we get slivers of the truth beaten into their heads.”
“Put it before them briefly so they will read it, clearly so they will appreciate it, picturesquely so they will remember it, and above all, accurately so they will be guided by its light,” advises Joseph Pulitzer, a Hungarian-born American newspaper publisher.
Historian and author Barbara W. Tuchman has the same recommendation: “No writing comes alive unless the writer sees across his desk a reader, and searches constantly for the word or phrase which will carry the image he wants the reader to see, and arouse the emotion he wants him to feel. Without the consciousness of a live reader, what a man writes will die on his page.”
When writing, never be content with what you have written. Read it again and again. Revise while reading. And then revise again. English novelist Margery Allingham admitted that she writes every paragraph four times: “Once to get my meaning down, once to put in anything I have left out, once to take out anything that seems unnecessary, and once to make the whole thing sound as if I have only just thought of it.”
According to Frank E. McElroy, to write what you want to say in a way that can be understood by other people is not easy. “It takes real effort,” the established author said. “Do your writing in four bite-size portions. Doing one of these at a time makes your writing easier and your results more effective.”
McElroy suggests four steps: (1) Define your purpose and learn your subject; (2) Organize your material in the light of your readers’ abilities and interests; (3) Write to best express yourself (and your ideas); and (4) Edit and polish your writing so that it is easy to read, is easy to understand, and is good English.
Just a reminder, though: “Being a writer is a solitary vocation. Occasionally, letters or phone calls provide evidence that someone out there is reacting – usually in vehement disagreement. But it is exceedingly difficult for a writer who does not also teach to experience a continuum of face-to-face challenge and response to his ideas. You shoot an arrow and most of the time you have no way of knowing what impact it had, if any.”
