The Craft of Writing

Who do you think you are? What makes you think you can call yourself a writer? You know they were just being polite when they claimed they liked your writing. It’s only a matter of time before everyone realises you have no talent. Nobody wants to read what you write. You’ve got nothing original or interesting to say.

Let me be clear: I am not saying these horrible things to you, and I never would. But I bet you’ve said something like this to yourself at some point. I know I have.

It would be a rare writer indeed who did not wrestle with some level of self-doubt. For some, however, those uneasy feelings go deeper, leading us to believe that we are genuinely unworthy of our efforts and achievements. If heeded, such feelings can fool us into thinking we are nothing more than fakes, frauds, phonies—not ‘real’ writers at all.

Impostors, in fact.

Known by various names, the impostor complex is a treacherous tangle of thoughts that seek to convince you any success you experience is due to luck or chance or circumstance—or maybe it was the weather? Whatever the case, it was not the result of any effort, skill, or ability on your part. And by the way, you know you’re never going fluke a win like that again, right?

The impostor complex exhorts you to believe that any minute now—indeed, any second—you will be exposed as the incapable, inadequate, talentless charlatan you feel yourself to be. And it keeps viciously insisting, against all evidence, that you’re not ready, you’re not good enough, you don’t deserve it, you shouldn’t, you mustn’t, you can’t.

Honestly? It’s exhausting just writing about it, let alone having those ideas gnawing remorselessly at you.

If such erroneous notions are eroding your confidence, here are a few things to keep in mind.

1. According to Tanya Geisler, an expert in this area, the impostor complex affects high functioning, high achieving people who hold strong values of integrity, mastery, and excellence. That’s you, incidentally, even if you don’t recognise yourself in that description. (You see how this works?)

2. The impostor complex only shows up when something really matters to you. It diminishes your existing accomplishments and makes shaky every potential new venture. If you feel it in relation to your writing, take it as a sign of how important your words and your role as a writer are to you.

3. Three effects of the impostor complex are to make you doubt your capacity, to prevent you from acting, and to keep you isolated. Clearly, none of that is fun, and nor is it particularly conducive to writing.

4. Appearances to the contrary, it’s highly likely that everyone you have ever respected, most of the people you have met, and all those you wish you could be more like feel this way too. Yes. All of them. You are in good company.

5. While it is unlikely that the impostor complex can ever be completely defeated, there are ways to curtail its effects. I strongly recommend that you start identifying and practising these.

Some suggestions for overcoming the impostor complex include:

• recognising it for what it is: a malicious mess of conjecture that is as unhelpful as it is untrue
• understanding that your doubts are not proof of your inability but rather an indication of your desire to meet your own (almost certainly unfeasibly) high standards of integrity, excellence, and mastery
• questioning the accuracy of the messages you receive about yourself, your work, and your worth, whether these arise internally or come from external sources
• giving yourself generous evidence of your abilities, resources, achievements, and brilliance, because you have an abundance of these, even if you don’t always acknowledge them
• making meaningful and supportive connections, and—here’s the tricky bit—actually believing these people when they encourage and praise you
• developing the capacity to encourage and praise yourself; after all, if your mind can persuade you to think you’re an impostor, it can also point out that you’re not.

There are lots of other strategies you might try, but my advice to help you face the impostor complex is to just keep writing.

Keep making, keep doing, keep creating, despite what those vicious whispers tell you. Use your voice and cultivate the courage to trust that your work matters—that YOU matter—because it’s true.

Truer than any impostor could be.

How has the impostor complex affected your writing? What strategies do you use to subdue it? Are there any resources or tools on this topic that you can recommend to others?

Note: Much of the information for this article came from the work of Tanya Geisler. If you’d like to know more, please visit her online. And for those pondering the correct spelling of impostor/imposter, have a read of this.

There are moments in life that echo with unexpected resonance. They arise like reminders of a truth held deep in your being that you may not recognise or express until it is brought to light by an external catalyst. Such moments occur for me when I’m wandering through an art gallery and find myself drawn to certain works that rouse a powerful response. They happen, too, when I’m reading and I encounter an image or phrase that renders the world more lucid or beautiful. Then there are the times when a comment from an admired author illuminates an intrinsic understanding.

A recent instance of this arose from an observation by Philip Pullman on the significance of rhythm in his process. In an interview with the BBC, he said:

“When I’m writing, I’m more conscious of the sound, actually, than the meaning. I know what the rhythm of the sentence is going to be before I know what the words are going to be in it. That’s a very important factor in the way I write … I have to have silence, so I can hear the rhythm.”

This reflection resonated with me because it describes, to some extent, the way that I write, but it also alludes to how—and sometimes what and why—I edit. Much of my work involves sensing and finessing the rhythm in sentences, paragraphs and whole manuscripts.

Punctuation has a role in this, of course. There are the varying pauses offered by commas, semicolons, dashes and full stops. There’s the space that is made by a paragraph or line break, as well as the emphasis implied by an exclamation mark, the rising note of a question mark, the trailing off of an ellipsis… The length of sentences and placement of phrases in relation to their neighbours also alter the tone.

Beyond the simple yet undeniable effects of syllables and stress, many rhetorical devices may contribute to the melody of a text. Assonance, consonance and alliteration can all be employed; variety, repetition and rhyme too. There is an abundance of techniques that will give rhythm to your writing, but the best approach is to nourish an individual instinct for it.

Tuning in to the rhythm in writing begins with listening to how it sounds. Always read your words aloud, and pursue opportunities to hear good writing by others, either at live events or in the form of audiobooks, podcasts and so on. You might also seek out speeches—as both recordings and transcripts—delivered by eloquent orators, or consider the way that music might inform the balance, pacing and inflection of your sentences.

Better yet, listen to poetry.

There is perhaps no better way to cultivate an appreciation of rhythm in writing than to immerse yourself in poems. Let the musicality of the words, their pitch and lilt, their harmony and sonority, and even their dissonance reverberate through you.

Philip Pullman lauds the potency of poetry, noting that it, initially more than stories, was “the great key” for him. Speaking with Michael Williams from the Wheeler Centre, he commented that:

“I loved poetry; I loved the sound it made. I didn’t understand it always, but I didn’t need to understand it because I’d got the idea that if I just spoke it, if I read it aloud, it would communicate something to me, and it did, and it still does.”

We may not all have the ability to write like the author of His Dark Materials, but whether you craft your sentences by placing cadence before content or you tinker with the tempo later when editing, having an awareness of rhythm is, in my view, vital for devising lively and enticing writing.

It invites readers in, guides and beguiles them, and it may even help kindle those glorious moments of resonance.

Are you aware of rhythm as you write? Do you appreciate it when reading what others have written? What tactics or techniques do you use to improve the rhythm of your sentences?

Artful writing is like a dance. There’s a rhythm and a deftness to it, a blend of temptation and respect. It requires attunement to certain textual nuances, among which are consistency, repetition and difference. Achieving a balance between these seemingly contradictory but in fact complementary qualities can help enliven your writing, enabling you to engage with your readers in creative ways.

Consistency

An essential task for any copyeditor or proofreader is to achieve consistency in a document. This ranges from maintaining the same spelling for individual words to ensuring a harmonious tone of voice throughout. Both author and editor need to be clear about the direction and intention of a text so that a coherent message is shared. Consistency is also important in terms of the structure of a manuscript. The aim is to create a considered container in which your ideas can flourish.

These issues of consistency matter not only because they are pleasing in themselves, but also because they afford a more assured experience. By smoothing away any potential concerns about errant spelling or uneven pacing, you allow your readers to give their full attention to the meaning you are seeking to convey. They can absorb the information, enjoy the artistry of your words and appreciate the care you have taken, rather than being distracted by needless niggles.

Instilling consistency in your work is a way of demonstrating respect, both for your reader and for your work, and it is a vital part of being an artful writer.

Repetition

Repetition can be effective. Repetition lends emphasis. Repetition gives rhythm and form to your writing. But employed without thought, repetition risks becoming rather dull. Using the same word or phrase again and again and again may end up sounding insipid. Likewise, a sequence of sentences that have a similar beginning may indicate a lack of imagination at play. Even echoing the same pattern or length in sentence after sentence can make your writing seem clumsy.

The trick is to distinguish between repetition as a deliberate device and the less conscious habit of relying on familiar—if somewhat dusty—utterances. In this regard, it is wise to become aware of the terms and sayings that you frequently use. You may want to search for them in your document and try an alternative form of expression instead.

It is important to note here that repetition and consistency are not the same. Although alike in some ways, they serve different purposes and accomplish different ends. Consideration of both is necessary, and the two need to tango to let your words flow.

Difference

While the distinctions between consistency and repetition may be subtle, difference is outright contrary. That’s why it can be so striking. It shows up in writing in various ways: from the sudden, short sentence that interrupts a run of longer ones, to the unexpected flip in perspective that sparks in your second last paragraph.

An astute use of difference can be your mark as a writer, whether in your choice of vocabulary and themes, or through the unique voice you espouse. It adds interest, piquancy and depth to your texts, but it too must be applied with care. Too radical a departure from your tone or argument can disorientate your readers. Instead, be selective and implement difference to indicate significance.

Dancing with language

Consistency, repetition and difference are qualities that can either enhance or detract from your writing. They are features I search for and sense in a text, and I encourage you to do the same—in your own work as well as that of other authors. As you become more aware of the effects they confer, you can use them with greater sophistication.

Circling back to the idea of the dance, your role as a writer is to tune in to the essence of each, to feel into the patterns they present, and to bring all three into harmony to entice your readers to glide, sway and whirl with you and your artful words.

Are you conscious of consistency, repetition and difference in your own work? Do you use each of these thoughtfully? Which of the three do you believe presents the greatest challenge or opportunity in your writing?

What does it mean to achieve mastery? What are its qualities, and what responsibilities does it bring? When do you get to call yourself an artist? Does the affirmation—and indeed declaration—of this come from without or within?

These are some of the questions I pondered with a friend over a late breakfast one rainy day. It was a deep conversation, rich in digressions and connections, but one point she raised lit the spark for this article.

Do you own your writing?

Interestingly, my friend and I had different interpretations of this question. While notions of ownership often relate to intellectual property and copyright, our discussion did not venture in those directions, and neither does this article.

Rather, my friend recalled that she first heard the query in a writing course, where she understood it to refer to the language and stance that are present in a text. “Owning”, in this sense, means constructing clear, definitive sentences with no vacillation or equivocation, no might or may or could or should.

This is certainly a valid reading of the idea, and it may, if adopted, result in a more robust approach to writing. But as the preceding sentence shows, sometimes allowing a hint of doubt can be effective and even necessary.

Unusually, perhaps, for an editor, my perspective on the idea of owning one’s writing is less about the words themselves and more about an attitude of assurance and authority.

To own your writing, in this view, means taking care in its formation and feeling pride in its creation—regardless of how it is received. It implies a readiness to express your truth, a respect for your contribution, and a recognition of your unique vision.

Threading back to the exchange my friend and I shared, another aspect of owning your writing may be a desire to seek mastery, when you know your work is good but believe it can be better. Conversely, mastery may also be at play if you discern your words could be improved yet feel content with how they are.

Either way, owning your writing and having integrity as a writer may well be the marks of an artist.

This all sounds grand, but how can you purposely own your writing?

As with many things, it comes with practice. You start by writing badly, and then you write better. You learn to use your voice and discover what you want and need to say. You figure out when to seek feedback and how to receive it, listening judiciously to others and knowing that ‘yes’, ‘no’, ‘maybe’ and ‘thanks’ are all appropriate responses. It is by reflecting on your writing and defending your choices as an author that you take greater ownership of your work.

Most importantly, you need to know yourself as a writer and become (if only a little) more comfortable using that title. Some of you might already be at ease with this while others are still exploring their way towards it.

Regardless of your position, I invite you to consider what owning your writing means to you and how it applies in your life. It can be a powerful concept to adopt, affording you more certainty and confidence.

And it’s definitely worthwhile discussing it with an insightful friend over breakfast.

Do you own your writing? What is your interpretation of this question? How do you enact this idea?

One of my lovely clients contacted me recently regarding his current manuscript. He ended his email with the words: “I am trying to encourage myself to keep going.”

If you are a writer, then you know—with a weighty, world-weary certainty—that writing is not always fun. It is rarely easy and often unrewarding. Finding the motivation to keep putting one word after another (while most likely also going back to delete, tweak or shuffle a whole bunch more) is a challenge when you lack inspiration. Even the most eloquent and impassioned writers get disheartened from time to time.

The hard truth about encouraging yourself to keep writing is that it’s entirely up to you.

Leaving aside the commonly quoted notion that we write because we ‘must’—as if impelled by an inner imperative that seeks to be appeased—the reality in most cases is that we write because we choose to do so. I’m sorry to say it, but with some exceptions, it makes no essential difference whether we write or not.

But.

This does not mean your writing is not important.

It is, and that’s the point.

What you write does not have to change the world. It doesn’t need a million and six readers, but it does have to mean enough to you that you will find some way to keep going with it, even when motivation and inspiration are low. Even when you doubt yourself and your ability. Even when you are utterly discouraged.

The only person who can incite you to continue is you.

Maybe you hope your story will help others. Maybe you yearn to educate or entertain, or perhaps you are, quite simply, a kinder person when you give yourself time to write. Whatever your reasons are, remember them and repeat them to yourself in moments of misgiving.

If you’ve lost enthusiasm for your writing, try taking a new approach to it. Pick a different time or place to write. Set yourself challenges or restrictions and work within them. If you currently spend hours groaning over your computer screen, limit yourself to handwriting for no longer than thirty minutes a day. If you’re stuck on a particular passage or chapter, prohibit yourself from working on it for a week.

It is also wise to find external support, whether it is from a family member, a friend, a fellow writer, an imaginary mentor or even an editor. Although you are the only one who can decide whether or not to persist with your writing, you do not need to feel alone during difficult times. Meaningful affirmation can come from others, especially if they see the value that writing has for you.

Sometimes the inspiration comes later and sometimes it doesn’t come at all. The trick is to keep going regardless.

If you are really struggling and none of these suggestions brings you any relief, then it may be time to let it go. Despite its myriad frustrations, writing is ideally an enriching activity. If it has ceased to be so for you, perhaps the most generous choice you can make is to do something else instead. The world is full of wonders that have nothing to do with words (or so I’m told). You could always go and discover some.

As writers, we must come with ideas, dedicate the time to write, linger and labour over language, redraft and revise, endure—or hopefully enjoy—being edited, anticipate rejection, withstand doubts, and keep writing despite everything. In addition to this, we are responsible for generating and sustaining our own encouragement.

That might seem unfair. It may even be enough to make you want to give up. But you are the one who gets to choose.

So tell me: what are you going to do?

What discourages you about your writing? What do you do to motivate and inspire yourself? What support or advice can you share with others who feel like giving up?