- Daydream about it a lot.
This is easy, too: a little glue, a little space on your desk, and you’re set. You can also use Scrabble tiles. - Talk about your story idea.
- Write three pages every three months—not necessarily of the same story.
- Stop talking about your story idea.
- Think about it some more.
This is cheating, a little: you won’t actually become a writer but you can think of yourself as one. And you’ll have to admit, those are easy steps.
So here are the five hard steps:
Read. I hear through the grapevine there’s a brave new breed of writing student out there: the kids who never read a whole book in their lives–could we call them little-read writing hoods? Nevertheless, they want to jump into the deep end and start cranking out stories. Fantasy stories, usually–because those all come straight out of your head, right? So you don’t have to spend a lot of time in research or craft; just go for the gold. A tiny handful of such young Turks may succeed, by dint of a wild imagination and a natural gift of gab, but 1) they won’t have much to say, and 2) they won’t say it well. If you want to be a writer, read wide and deep in order to become wider and deeper.
Focus. Nobody cares about your general thoughts about life, because we all have those. But some people (not everybody) might be interested in your particular thoughts about particular things, like marketing tulip bulbs or fly-fishing in Northern Africa or early Celtic illuminated manuscripts or how the Holy Trinity imposes Trinitarian structure on all of reality (I’m very interested in that). Rather than starting wide and ending small, start small and end wider, making connections between the specific, particular things and the broader, universal things.
And related to this: Notice things. Find material all around you to write about. Describe real people, record real conversations, look into your real feelings rather than just extrapolating from the movies or popular fiction. We all borrow, whether or not we’re aware of it. Borrow from reality. I like to say, when it comes to creation, you can’t improve on God.
Practice. If you do lots of reading you will have a pretty good idea in your head what good writing looks like, and when you start to write for yourself, you’ll subconsciously imitate your favorite writers. But over time, you’ll develop your own style and rhythm. This only comes with practice. It doesn’t matter how you practice: keep a journal or scribble on looseleaf paper or carry a set of 3X5 cards around with you to jot down your impressions (I’ve done all of these, and would like to be a little more systematic but at my age, it’s not happening.) Related to this—as you practice, don’t develop bad habits. Even though writing is the most subjective activity you can engage in (except for reading), it has its rules. Some ways of creative communication are more effective than others. Some sentences are stronger, some word choices more vivid. Learn the rules and make them your own—which means you can break them sometimes. See Wordsmith: a Creative Writing Course for Young People for a fun and easy (yes, I’m not kidding about the easy this time!) way to start.
Don’t Wait. When I was a kid, I didn’t aspire to author-ship; I wanted to be an actress. But maybe by high school graduation time I was thinking about writing, because I remember this salesman who came by the house to sell me something related to adult life. Isn’t it funny how memory works? I don’t recall exactly what he was selling—some kind of savings or layaway plan–but I’m certain it was right around the time of graduation, and I remember him asking me what I planned to major in/be/do. I must have said I was thinking about being a writer, because then he said (and this is the part that’s clear in memory), “The one piece of advice I’ve heard about that is, you have to write something every day.” That’s not strictly true—I certainly don’t write something every day—but it’s essentially true. And don’t wait. Do it. Some people will be more consistent if they set aside a certain time of day, even if it’s only half an hour. But do it. Do it.
Wait. This comes after steps 1-4, and it may not come for you at all. But here’s the thing: after you’ve been reading and focusing and noticing; after you’ve filled and torn up a few thousand pages of prose and sharpened your craft, there may come a time of waiting. This is for deciding if you really are a writer or not. If you are, you’ll feel just a little bit on edge if you’re not doing it. Like, life without a story to draft or a description to compose or an argument to make is not quite complete. You may be experiencing some necessary interruptions right now, but they are temporary. You’ll get back to the drafting and revising and the pain that cuts and the satisfaction that fills you like nothing else.
But there’s also the possibility that you’re not—or not yet, or not quite—a writer. That’s when you feel mostly relief. A “Hey that was fun and I learned a lot and my mom liked it and I may get another idea sometime.”
Chances are, you won’t—and that’s fine too.