Why Everyone Should Write (Even if You Think You Stink)

We often hear it said that “everyone wants to write a book.” Although we may find a certain amount of comforting inclusiveness in this idea, I think we also sometimes respond to it with at least a smidge of disdain. After all, the only people who should really be writing books are those who are good at it—or at last those who are serious about it. Right?

But this idea, however vague or unrealized, is problematic—for many reasons. For one thing, I think it is the internalized cause for much of the shame and insecurity that authors (and I daresay other artists) tend to struggle with so stereotypically. For another, it suggests that creativity and communication are only worthwhile if they attain some arbitrary (and often ever-shifting) standard of universal quality. And finally, adherence to this idea to whatever degree also robs the individual, and ultimately the world, of many other types of potential blessings which extend far beyond the created work itself.

I’ll be honest: even the title of this site—Helping Writers Become Authors—implicitly suggests that only “authors” count in contrast to plain old workaday “writers” (though there really isn’t a dictionary distinction between “writers” and “authors”). I suppose this is all fine and well. After all, at a certain point most people engaged in any artistic pursuit—and especially to the degree that they desire a return from it (commercial or otherwise)—will find purpose and enjoyment in understanding and improving their craft.

But insofar as this site, and many others like it, seem to be focused on “the serious writer,” I think it is important to remember that writing is not merely the domain of those who have proven themselves “worthy” through exemplary skill and study.

Indeed, I hope everyone does want to write a book. And I hope everyone writes at least one book—or poem or screenplay—or paints a picture, takes a beautiful photo, etc. The act of creativity is sacred. More than that, it is the portal through we which we have the opportunity to bless our own lives and by extension the world. And this is true even if our work is witnessed by no one but ourselves.

If you have ever come to this site, others like it, or books about writing—or even just read a novel by someone whose skill and inspiration felt miles beyond your own—and felt that you should give up right now, that you have no right to write anything or call yourself a “writer,” much less an “author”—or if you feel your scribblings, however passionate, do not count because you have no ambition to publish or be a “good writer”—if grammar and story structure and arguments about POV and the Oxford comma aren’t your thing—it doesn’t matter.

We need your writing—and mine (because I feel most of those feelings on a regular basis)—as much as we do any of the great classic heroes of literature. The world needs us all to be writers and creators. It needs the next Pulitzer winner, and it needs the scribbled poem forgotten on a napkin in a cafe.

Creativity vs. Commercialism

For writers in this post-modern age, who have at our fingertips more options and control for publishing and making a career of writing than ever before, there is a danger of confusing the inherent worth of creativity with what often seems its natural commercial endpoint.

Not only does “everyone want to write a book,” but many people also dream of being published authors. Any prestige aside, as well as the idea that being a writer might provide a more rewarding vocation than a “day job,” we also tend to find deep resonance simply in the idea of sharing our ideas and words with others. After all, writing perhaps more than any other form of creativity is about communication. If nothing else, writing stories that are commercial successes seems to be the best way to communicate with the greatest number of people.

So far so good. And we all have to make a living (and, after all, writing is how I make my living, so I’m definitely not knocking it!). But it is important not to conflate the act of creativity with the act of selling the products of that creativity.

The worth of your writing is not determined by how many books you sell. By anyone’s standard, there are a plethora of great books that have never been published or, if they have been published, have never sold many books—just as there are a plethora of bestsellers that really aren’t that great.

More than that, however, the idea that the goal of writing must be commercially-viable publication is problematic because it discourages creativity for the sake of creativity. And that is really the whole point anyway.

Even when unwitnessed, creation is an act of organizing the chaos of life into order. It is what is sometimes called in the old fables “sorting this from that.” To whatever degree your art and your writing allow you to do this for yourself, it will impact those around you and in some measure the entire scope of life. That is hardly without value.

The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron (affiliate link)

Even just journaling—churning out Julia Cameron’s three “morning pages” a day—is an offering of creativity and order that anyone would benefit from. The more discipline we impose on the act—the more we understand about form and beauty—the more potent the effects become.

The Dangers of Perfectionism

Perfectionism might be considered “the desire for order taken too far.” If we view the act of writing as bringing chaos into order, then it’s perhaps not too surprising that perfectionism is a common struggle for many writers. I would suppose it is especially potent for those of us who believe our writing should be worthy in some way (by the blessing of another person’s approval or, again, by commercial success—which indicates, among other things, the blessing of many people’s approval).

I’ve spoken before about the important distinction between “perfectionism” and the “professionalism” that allows us to seek commercial success (if we so desire). But it is important to recognize that however wonderful and important is the discipline of improving one’s craft, this never means that “imperfection” invalidates either the act of writing or, necessarily, the writing itself. After all, has there ever been any such thing as a perfect story?

Too often, this obsessive compulsion for perfection can whirl writers into too critical (and, indeed, often incorrect) judgments of their writing’s quality. If the judgments are too harsh and too frequent, they can understandably result in the writer giving it up.

And that is always a shame, not just for the writer but for all the rest of us as well.

The 3 Gifts of Raw Creativity

To be human and alive is to be creative. This is our gift: to create, to process, to seek beauty, to understand, to communicate, to innovate, to revere, to learn, to grow. When we turn writing into a caste system in which only certain “children of the gods” are blessed with the ability and the right to make stories, we limit our own ability and often the ability of others to find joy in the simple act of creation, regardless of objective value.

There are three specific gifts your writing—whether it is your best writing or your worst—has to offer:

1. The Gift to Yourself

Even if the primary goal is to communicate something to others, we all start out writing for ourselves. We write because it rewards us in some way. Perhaps it clears our minds or our hearts. Perhaps it brings us joy or relief. Perhaps it helps us see new perspectives and find unexpected growth. Perhaps it helps us process and grieve. Perhaps it helps us make up our minds. Perhaps it is invigorating. Perhaps it is relaxing.

Whatever the case, we do it because however hard it can sometimes be (and sometimes, frankly, it is herculean), it blesses us. The act of creativity always has the potential to offer a gift to the one doing the creating.

Indeed, I’m quite sure that is why we are all here. It is certainly why I am here. Writing changes my life every day. That occasionally I write something good enough to publish is the least of it. Writing helps me live a better life. Full stop.

2. The Gift to Others

Some of our writings we never share, either because what we have written is too personal or because we know (or fear) it isn’t objectively good enough to communicate properly with others. But for most of us, the very act of creativity eventually prompts a desire to share our creation.

Although the ego undoubtedly gets involved in this, I tend to think this desire is deeper and more organic than simply the need for validation. Rather, it is because in creating—and especially in writing—we are desiring to communicate with others.

Anyone who has received a positive comment on their writing knows that the true joy is not the ego’s happiness that its skill has been confirmed, but rather the sense that someone else “got it”—they were able to receive what you had to give.

As readers, we understand this experience as well. Indeed, we long for those special words that seem able to say the very thing we needed and wanted to hear (without perhaps even knowing it). When this happens someone else’s writing becomes a gift to us.

More than that, I think we are inevitably blessed by others’ creations whether we experience the creations or not. When someone we know composes their thoughts in a journal or a private story, we are blessed by that. Whether we ever realize it or not, our world has just been made a little more stable, perhaps even a little more beautiful.

Too, we gather inspiration and courage from the inspiration and courage of those around us. How blessed are we when we get to witness someone else’s passionate act of creation? How can we not be encouraged? (And do not miss that “encourage” means to “give courage.”)

3. The Gift to the World

There is a poem of sorts, supposedly based on the words of a 12th-century monk, which I often think about:

Do you want to change the world?

Change your country.

Do you want to change your country?

Change your town.

Do you want to change your town?

Change your neighborhood.

Do you want to change your neighborhood?

Change your family.

Do you want to change your family?

Change yourself.

To which I would add: “Do you want to change yourself? Write a book!” (Or create just about anything.) And I don’t mean, necessarily, a world-changing book. Any book will do. In fact, counter-intuitively, the most personal and vulnerable book might be the one to have the most significant effect.

I also do not mean that you necessarily have to publish that book or even allow it to be read by anyone else. Rather, this is about recognizing that the simplest and humblest act of creation in itself has the ability to create positive change in ways far beyond your ability to see it.

Finding Ultimate Worth in the Act of Writing, Rather Than the Product

If you want to be a published author, go for it. If you want to make writing your living, chase the dream. If you want to hone your craft and learn to write stories of qualitative merit, then please do.

But don’t forget that all of these pursuits are not intrinsic to the value of your writing. The act of writing is valuable in itself and is the foundation upon which any further value may then be compounded. The product of writing is a different consideration altogether. It is not an unimportant consideration. But it comes later, if at all.

Whenever you write from a true place—joy, grief, anger, desire, curiosity—you are writing something important and worthy. Celebrate that. Celebrate your courage in simply being willing to look inside yourself and to try to communicate what you find. That isn’t nothing. Indeed, that’s everything.

The next time you find yourself thinking “my writing stinks” or “I’m not a real writer” or “I should just quit”—don’t. Keep writing. We need you.

Wordplayers tell me your opinions! Why do you write? Tell me in the comments!

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