You have good taste. It's why you got into this whole “writing” in the first place—you're aware of good writing when you read it. Of course, this has both an upside and a downside.
The upside: you know good writing when you read it, so you know what you want your writing to be.
The downside: you know good writing when you read it, so you know your writing has a long way to go.
You may know the name Ira Glass. He's spent years as reporter and host for radio programs like Morning Edition, All Things Considered, and Talk of the Nation, and is currently the producer of This American Life. In a 2009 interview, he made one of the most profound statements on creativity I've encountered in my life.
What nobody tells people who are beginners—and I really wish someone had told this to me . . . is that all of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, and it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not.
Today, I'm here to talk about that gap.
The Creative Gap
There's a downside to knowing what we want our writing to be. While that understanding, that good taste, pushes us to get better, on dark days, it also adds to the struggle. We know our writing isn't “there” yet, and sometimes, that's devastating.
Or, to continue Ira Glass' amazing quote:
But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you.
You know, that's not actually a bad thing. You need that high standard so you know what to aim for. That good taste is your guide.
Now, I know this makes some of you nervous. Many writers I've met are afraid of being overconfident; they've met (or heard of) some guy somewhere who writes terribly, but is sure he's a genius. Nobody wants to be that guy.
I'm not telling you to be overconfident. I'm telling you to keep reading and learning to recognize good writing so your taste stays killer. As long as you keep your taste keen, you will (a) know what you're aiming for and (b) know when you're off, and (c) you won't become that guy.
Fight Your Way Through
Ira Glass went deeper into this conundrum of mismatched taste and talent:
A lot of people never get past this phase. They quit.
I've known people who quit. I almost WAS one of those people who quit.
I bet you've had moments when you wanted to quit, too—and if you haven't yet, you will.
When that happens, remember that you're normal.
Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this.
Normal. All of us run up against this wall because we have that good taste.
And there is only one way past it: we have to fight our way through.
And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know it’s normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish one story.
It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through.
You've gotta fight your way through.
Maybe this means reading a lot. Maybe it means cutting off the people in your life who are really toxic and listening to people who encourage you. Maybe it means picking up old work and reading it to remind yourself that you do not, in fact, suck.
Maybe it means putting the book down for a little while, then filling your creative well with other things: exercise, photography, friends, meditation, or something else inspiring.
What it means at its heart is this: find what you need to do to fight your way through this wall, then do it. Keep honing your taste and remember that you're not alone. That gap is one we all have to jump over.
Fight your way through, fellow writer. Fight your way through.
How are you fighting through this month? Let us know in the comments!
PRACTICE
Today, let’s practice aiming for what your good taste demands. Here's a prompt for you to get started: if you're writing fiction, take your character and put them in a room with the most beautiful object they've ever seen. Maybe it's a painting, or maybe it's just a window with a view. Describe not just what your character see, but how it makes them feel.
If you write nonfiction, this is for you, too: it's time for you to describe the time you saw the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. Share how it made you feel. Share the power of being moved by beauty.
Write for fifteen minutes without stopping to edit. Don't be afraid. All you're doing is describing beauty and how it feels to see it. When you’re done, share your writing in the comments, and don’t forget to leave feedback on your fellow writers’ pieces!
Inspiring post. Thank you!
Glad it helped, Michael! 🙂
I have in my hands, the worst, most soporific example of a fine, several-times-published female comic novelist’s work that I sometimes subconsciously ape; vow to try to continue to ape, and do a bad job of, when I actually full-on do. You know, actually again finding myself hurtled down into the “Show, Don’t Tell Vortex” …
I’ve been told to stick to dialog writing, because that’s what I do best; and not to ape this woman because I don’t do exposition at the level that she can (and does, even in this snore-fest of a work). I am dialoging my way through writing the most corny jokes. One of my characters is supposed to be much too much of a genius to be this verbose; so I let my protagonist tell these jokes … I’ve written in this exact style for the past 25 years …(far from continuously, though). She (my protagonist) likes doing that, anyway (the jokes), but that is not the main driving force of her character. I am dialoging my way through the banter. I am dialoging my way through her (and a few other characters’) feelings.
The mistake I did make, was assuming that the bad example could be the accessible example.
As the protagonist, Krisha, tells me, “I’ve got the face and the hair. I’d be a fashion model, too, Tina; but I’m thirty years too old for that, over three inches too short, and my ass is too big. On their worst run, models could still be in a photo shoot, but I know I just look like a damp dog.”
My drunken old lady muse chided me, this time not insulting me anymore (you think that ever really worked?); and told me, “Can you not study post-Mad Men era copywriters and see what they do to be evocative? And keep the paragraphs very, very short. Put in physical movement. And then jerry-build your accessible version … It probably won’t be quality, but it will have some dash …”
Tina, all I can say is that if you ARE aping, then you’re doing the right thing.
You read that correctly. That’s the RIGHT way to start. Neil Gaiman put it best:
“The urge, starting out, is to copy. And that’s not a bad thing. Most of us only find our own voices after we’ve sounded like a lot of other people. But the one thing that you have that nobody else has is you. Your voice, your mind, your story, your vision. So write and draw and build and play and dance and live as only you can.
The moment that you feel that, just possibly, you’re walking down the street naked, exposing too much of your heart and your mind and what exists on the inside, showing too much of yourself. That’s the moment you may be starting to get it right.”
I can’t say it better. You’re doing the right thing; keep writing and keep practicing. Don’t be afraid to stretch yourself. So you struggle with exposition? Then keep working at it!
Writing always gets BETTER. It isn’t static. Just because we struggle with something now doesn’t mean we always will. Keep writing! 🙂
Wow, this resonates with me, and I’m certain it does with everyone else in the same way. I wrote for almost five years, and still thought I sucked. But I decided to take a leap and publish that book – while thinking it sucked – and those who have read it actually loved it! That became three books (the third of which was released yesterday), and it proved to me that even if you think your writing sucks, it doesn’t mean it does. Never let your own perfectionism and taste be your sole guide. I almost did, and it almost made me quit!
Now for the practice. My character in those three series is a Roman soldier, so here he is with the most precious thing he has ever seen:
He held it in his fingers with reverence, feeling the smoothness of the silk matted and hardened by blood.In the moonlight peeking through the opening in the fortress wall the purple fabric fairly glistened, as if trying to maintain its beauty, which was tarnished by the stains that covered it.
It had been three weeks since he had first held it, and he could not for the life of him remember why he had kept it, but somehow, in some way, it made him feel as if the One who had worn it was still there.
Guilt washed over him, but he immediately shook it off. He could suddenly feel, past the touch of the fabric he held, the mallet he had held the day he had killed Him, the day he had pounded the nails. If anything could have made that day worse for him, winning the robe by the casting of lots had. He wondered what the others would have done with the thing had they won it. Surely they would not have held it with such awe, such wonder at the Man whose shoulders it had rest upon as He had been led to His death.
And now it lay in his hands, folded exactly as he had placed it at the end of that fateful day. Each time he saw it he was brought back, but each time his mind made the journey it stung less. He had no doubt that the Son of God knew just who had won His robe as He had died. But he also had no doubt that he had been forgiven by Christ.
And as he stared down at the torn, dirty piece of now worthless cloth, to him it was priceless. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Reagan, you know I love your writing. Your practice above is another fine example. You’ve taken a simple (and not-too-attractive) object and conveyed the beautiful emotion it conjures. Bravo!
Speaking of your writing, didn’t one of your books win an award? That’s the opposite of sucking.
Thanks, Bruce. 🙂
You were actually one of the big reasons that I realized my writing might not suck after all. I fight a whole lot of doubts, but your response and review of “The Hidden Soul” (along with my other awesome readers!) killed many of them. 🙂
We are all our own worst critic. As I think of it, that is a good quality to instill in our characters. Deep down, Captain Kirk doubts his ability as a leader. McCoy insistently declares, “I’m a doctor, not a ____,” while wondering if that makes him mostly useless. Spock doubts his ability to suppress his emotions. Despite being “the best engineer in Starfleet,” Scotty often declares, “I canna do it, sir!” just before he does whatever it is he says he can’t do.
I’m suddenly thinking I need to put some more doubts into my characters!
I love that observation! I did try to place some doubts in Marcus, too. I never noticed the inner doubts of the Enterprise crew, but if you take things like that away, the characters would not be who they were. Our doubts/fears/faults make us who we are.
Ah, what a moving scene, Reagan! I’m so glad you took the plunge and published your books anyway.
You’re so right: just because we think we suck doesn’t mean others think so, too.
Just keep writing and keep reading. As long as you’re still learning, you’re moving closer and closer to where you want your writing to be!
Ruthanne, I’m so happy you wrote this post because I’ve always seen the chasm between my idea and the finished page, and I get instantly disappointed. I mean, hell…, it’s so bad! But this post, and the author you quoted, remind me what it takes to close that gap. It’s an inspiration.
Oh, Collis, that’s just a place I know all too well. Keep going! That gap is there, but you CAN close it! Don’t give up!
This article got my sick little mind churning. Here’s what came out…
Carefully, John entered the dimly lit room, like a cat stalking a mouse. He quickly scanned the room with his ultraviolet detector and saw a brilliant glow on the far wall. He inched toward it warily, nervously checking for the slightest movement in his peripheral vision. As he neared the ethereal glow he was overcome with feelings of peace and security. The glow came from an object on the wall and was by far the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He saw that it was glowing with gold and lavender with lime green rays pulsating outward from the center. He reached out to touch it and experience its warmth. By the time he realized that the object was a huge spider, it was too late.
Oh, yuccck! I mean the object.
The work was sublime!
Thanks Tina – My skin was crawling as I wrote that. I am not real fond of big spiders!
I love spiders. Anything that eats mosquitoes is a friend of mine.
Nicely written.
I’ll be sure to send them to your house. 😉
This was amazingly written. I actually felt what the character was feeling and the end made me just cringe and laugh. awesome.
WOW! Yikes! You’ve got me checking under chairs now for regular spiders. 🙂 Very well-done! I’m so curious why he was searching the room with this detector. I think you’ve got some really interesting world-building here!
Oh, good article. I want to always remain a humble writer. And, seek high standards as one. Thank you.
I’m so glad this spoke to you! I’m always preaching to myself with these things. 🙂
Luna stalked quietly into the small, yet empty room in her habit of trying not to make any noise. Almost all of the walls were built in with slightly broken concrete, except one before her was crystalline glass, clear as if nothing had been put there.
Outside was a view so stunning that no one would’ve seen before. And she was quite sure no one would ever see it if they don’t come to this enchanted place.
Outside was a wonder of marine life, the corals, the daylight shining dimly through the waves, the bigger animal she’d seen so much on the television, all of them had been placed before her eyes just now. A wide smile tugged at her lips. She wanted to slip past the glass and go out there to explore, just the thought of it was exciting. She walked forward to touch the clear glass, her heart racing in excitement. Just then, her hand phased right through…
Whoa! I want to read more!
Don’t stop there! LOL… love the exhilaration you portrayed. Lovely!
Woah woah woah! Can’t end it just like that! I need more!
I want to explore there, too – and that she gets the chance is both frightening and wonderful! I’m so curious about what happens. Lovely choice for a scene!
I have realized that I should not be intimidated with my own set of skills. Everytime I make myself believe that my writing is not good enough, someone will show up and will tell me I am good in writing. I know I have a long way to go. Reading post like yours and comments like the other writers makes me more inspired.
Never let your own opinion judge your writing. I thought mine was horrible, but my readers loved it! Always get others’ opinions.
That is so powerful and important! We all have a long way to go, believe me; don’t give up. it’s those of us who keep going who finally make it as writers.
This was an interesting practice for me, as my protagonist, Akiko, is blind. She does see in her dreams, however, so here goes….
They were there, now, with her. (Was she in her house? She couldn’t tell.) The two most beautiful faces she had ever seen. Father. Mother. He with his smile that went from his mouth to his eyes to Akiko’s very soul. He was the man who had taught her chess, who had disciplined her with compassion, and who had shown Akiko how a woman should be treated in the way he treated both she and her mother.
Her mother. A beautiful woman. Despite her Anglican name, her features declared her Japanese ancestry boldly, from her raven-black hair to the angle of her dark eyes to the dusky hue of her skin. She was just a shade lighter than Hiroshi (Akiko’s father), and Akiko had inherited her color. It was she who had taught Akiko how to cook a meal on a budget, and how to be organized. Akiko’s own system of organizing the contents of her backpack was a modification of the system her mother had used.
The two of them stood before her. Father’s arm was around her mother’s shoulder. Mother’s arm was around Father’s waist. They both spread their free arms, inviting Akiko into a family hug.
“Come, daughter,” her father said with his soul-filling smile. Akiko rushed to hug them. But somehow she felt as if she were slogging through maple syrup. The syrup became thick goo, and the goo became a paste. It was as if she weren’t moving at all. Father. Mother. Both smiling. Both inviting. They seemed to be receding into a bright light. Into darkness. Tears stung Akiko’s face as she cried out to them, trying desperately to reach them.
She awoke to the all-too-familiar darkness.
It had just been a dream. The vision of her parents had not been real.
But Akiko’s tears were.
this was Beautifull. wow.
Stop it! You’re making me blush!
Out of curiosity, what did you like about it?
its just everyone writes so good and Im such a shitty writer .btw ive commented on this assignment u , i hope u read it and give me honest feedback.
I’ll read it, Sameema! And hey – we’re ALL shitty writers to start out. 🙂 Absolutely all of us. It’s normal to start out that way; only by practice can we get better!
I love this, Bruce! Wow, you’ve done a great job with this prompt. That is an absolutely beautiful scene. Thank you for sharing it!
Thank you so much for your kind words, Ruthanne. I’d love to know what it was specifically that you liked about it.
The stockade came into view on the fifth day of our walk. Brilliant colors of orange, red, and yellow fought against the oncoming darkness as the sun set on the distant
horizon. Papa says one more day of walking will find us at our final destination. Or will it? Papa stares at the setting sun until it disappears from sight and darkness engulfs us. He turns back in the direction of our land and hangs his head.
“Willow, the fire goes here,” he said to my sister as he pointed at the ground behind him. “We’ll make camp around it. Make sure there is room for us to bed down for the night.
“Yes, Father. I’ll get a fire started and clear the area for us to sleep.”
“Little Swallow, take care of Grandfather and Baby Boy. Roaring Bear and I are going out to scout the area.”
“Yes, Papa, I will.”
Papa and Roaring Bear disappear into the darkness without a whisper of a sound.
But, of course, Willow breaks the silence. She can’t keep her big mouth shut, ever.
“Get to work Little Swallow. You heard what Father said.”
“I heard what Papa said. Why don’t you mind what he told you to do?”
Willow turns and stomps away. She doesn’t like it when I talk back to her. She’s two years older and thinks she owns me. But, I’m smarter.
Baby Boy is strapped to Willow’s back, so I have to go after her to get him back. Every time I get close to her, she darts away to pick up wood for the fire. She’s so annoying. It’s no wonder none of the braves want to marry her. All of a sudden, she appears right in front of me.
“Take Baby Boy, Little Swallow.”
“I would if you’d let me. You’re always in an uproar. What’s wrong with you? Oh, never mind. I know the answer to my own question. You’re eighteen and unmarried. I wonder why. I know the answer to that too. You’re bossy and m…”
Before I can get mean out of my mouth, her right hand connects with my left cheek. Tears well up and smart eyes but I refuse to give into her again.
“Mean is what you are,” I retort back against her violence.
Without a word, she hands Baby Boy over to me and walks away. Why did she give in so fast? She’s two years older and never let me win a battle before. And, violence never entered our arguments before. What in the world is going on?
Willow’s meanness dissipates from my mind when Baby Boy smiles and nestles himself into my arms. He’s such a sweet baby, but I need to find Grandfather. Papa told me to watch them both. Grandfather is sitting right where Papa left him. He’s on a log next to where the fire will go. I sit down on the ground next to him and put Baby Boy on his lap.
“Grandfather, Baby Boy wants to be with you for awhile.”
“What’s going on, Smalls, do you want me to do your chores?”
“Why do you call me Smalls Grandfather? My name is Little Swallow. And, I don’t need you to do my chores.”
“Your Mother said you were the small one when you were born. You arrived two months early and not expected to survive. Your parents named you Little Swallow, but you are my Smalls.”
Grandfather looks tired, so I gather Baby Boy from his lap.
“No, Smalls leave him with me. I want to get to know him better.”
“Yes, Grandfather, let me know if you need anything.”
I sit on the ground at his feet and wait. Papa and Roaring Bear aren’t back, but Willow has a fire going. The heat from the fire warms me as cold darkness surrounds our camp. Papa looked at the stockade as if he did something shameful. Something is wrong, and no one tells me what is going on. Why did we leave our home? Why did Papa sell our farm to the white people?
Ahh this is interesting. I like how you captured that sense of youth throughout your narrative, bravo!
Oooh, what an interesting setup! I’m so curious what’s going to happen, and what drove them to this place. Very fun character development, too!
Brilliant stars were suspended in the darkness of space, twinkling and shining like Christmas lights. These dots of light were at the same time still and always moving, their light never quite the same intensity each moment. Not a sound was uttered in that perfect canvas, silence suffusing everything with a warm peace. The ethereal glow of these distant giants of plasma with arcs of pure energy racing across their massive forms tinted the surroundings with a soft, white light.
Then an alarm erupted, shattering that fragile, peaceful beauty that had lain before me. It seems the world doesn’t slow down for anyone.
Oh my gosh! What a dream-scape. Now I’m dying to know what’s going on; is it “real” in this story? Is it someplace the protagonist has been? Wow! I love the visuals.
In terms of suggestions, my only major one would be to work on active verbs instead of passive. “Were suspended” as opposed to “hung” or something like that might be better. 🙂
Really, this is lovely and intriguing. Keep writing!
Oh my gosh! What a dream-scape. Now I’m dying to know what’s going on; is it “real” in this story? Is it someplace the protagonist has been? Wow! I love the visuals.
In terms of suggestions, my only major one would be to work on active verbs instead of passive. “Were suspended” as opposed to “hung” or something like that might be better. 🙂
Really, this is lovely and intriguing. Keep writing!
Thank you so much Ruthanne! I like that you enjoyed it, and thank you for that suggestion. I really hadn’t thought of active verbs, but now I’ll keep it in the back of my mind when I write. Thank you again.
She could hear everyone congratulating in that small hospital room. Afterall it was a successful operation of her eye resulting in the complete restoration of her eyesight back.
When did she lose it ? She couldn’t quite remember. Her mom told her once that she lost her eyesight when she was 4 due to a head injury in a drastic car accident.
She felt excited to finally experience what the world looked like, what her parents and everything she loves look like and specially what she herself looked like. But she was scored to do so, she wasn’t sure why though.
“ Open your eyes darling !” she heard her dad say. “Here” her dad handed her something. She felt it with her hands but then she remembered she was finally able to see too. Slowly she opened her eyes and looked at the object. It was an oval frame with a picture inside it. She looked at the person n the picture. Olive skin, Golden yellow hairs, hazel green eyes, red cheeks and pink lips. She wondered if it was the girl behind the voice of that Hollywood actress she loved listing to. Her heart skipped a beat and breathing rate turn slower. “ Its…beautiful.” She managed to say. Everyone laughed which made her tense.
It was a matter of a few seconds when she finally realized that the object was a mirror and she was finally looking at her own reflection.
Not bad. Could use a quick copy-edit. Maybe linger a bit more on what she sees before she realizes it is actually her reflection. I think you sell yourself short as a writer.
thanks… um can you give a few tips because im really bad at it..
Just keep coming back to The Write Practice. You’ll get better, I promise.
That is SUCH a sweet story. I really like the positivity of it. This is a real feel-good thing with a happy ending and hints of a long battle leading there. I’m so glad you shared this!
For the record, it is definitely not “shitty.” It’s lovely.
thank you so much… i’ve seen this comment in my email after two months and you know what i was loosing hope if i could be a better writer.. u don’t know what you’ve done to me. thank u so much.
Tasha enters the room where she is to meet Jason to be interviewed for an article about their marriage and parenting as teens. This is the modest home of their new friend, who happens to be a reporter for the Denver Post and writes for the Sunday magazine. Although the exterior of the home is traditional suburban brick, upon entering it is obvious that this room reflects the owner’s own unique tastes while also creating a welcoming and warm environment. The room is actually three rooms that have been opened into one large area comprising the kitchen, dining room, and living room. At the end of the living room there is a glowing amber and gold stained glass window, flanked by two charcoal sketches of prairie scenes. Bookcases containing beautifully bound classics sit below the framed sketches while the center under the stained glass is occupied by a beautiful wood cabinet, perhaps containing an entertainment center currently sending forth the soothing strains of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. The remainder of the living room area is filled with very comfortable-looking chairs, cherry wood occasional tables with unique lamps, and more bookcases. The room invites one to sit, allow the music to be absorbed, and select a good book to read.
What a beautiful room! I know it would be one of my favorites immediately. Lovely job diving into the luxury of this place!