7 Writing Truths That Break You Before They Make You
If I knew yesterday what I know today, would it have changed anything?
Probably not. Humans only listen when the lesson finally clicks--and it always clicks now, never then. Writing is the same. It’s a mirror that refuses to lie.
A spotlight aimed straight at the parts of you you’d rather ignore. These seven truths didn’t just make me a better writer.
They made me a clearer human.
1. Writing Is a Spiritual Act
Humans are the only species capable of writing, which means writing isn’t an accident.
It’s a design feature.
The page is where consciousness goes to speak without interruption. Writing is the portal. You are the conduit.
Every time you write, you’re not “creating.”
You’re receiving.
Trouble only starts when the mind--the overthinking, performative, self-conscious narrator--hijacks the process.
That’s the editor. He’s useful, but he’s not the muse.
Your real job is simple: Get out of your own way.
Let what wants to be written come through you, not from you.
2. Read Every Day
A writer who doesn’t read is a swimmer afraid of water.
You’re trying to master a craft you refuse to immerse yourself in.
Reading isn’t optional.
It’s the intake valve. It’s how you steal cadence, structure, mood, rhythm, genre, tension, breath.
Want to write fantasy? Read the best.
Want to write sci-fi? Study the architects.
Want to write romance? Consume the titans.
Leonardo da Vinci didn’t draw the Vitruvian Man by guessing. He studied the form until the form became instinct.
Writers must do the same.
Fifteen minutes a day is enough to change your entire voice over the course of a year.
3. Morning Pages — The Mental Reset Button
Julia Cameron wasn’t joking when she offered “Morning Pages” as a cure for creative friction.
They work because they bypass your ego completely.
Before the phone. Before the world. Before the performance of being a person...
You write.
Three pages.
Unfiltered.
Unhinged if necessary.
Complain. Dream. Ramble. Reveal.
It doesn’t matter.
The point is to purge the static so your authentic voice can breathe. After a month of doing this, something subtle shifts:
Writing stops feeling like extraction.
It starts feeling like oxygen.
4. Understand the Process or Suffer Through It
Most beginners think writing starts when they type.
Wrong.
Writing begins long before the page--with premise, shape, tension, motive, stakes, and architecture.
Ideas don’t arrive fully formed. They must be cultivated, sculpted, and interrogated.
Yes, you can draft blind and fix it later.
But then your editing process becomes a rescue mission instead of refinement.
A sculptor doesn’t attack a block of marble hoping “something” emerges.
They plan the statue before the chisel touches stone.
Process doesn’t restrict creativity.
It multiplies it.
5. Routine Is Non-Negotiable
You can romanticize writing all you want, but consistency is the only engine that ever built a career.
Your routine doesn’t need to be dramatic.
It needs to be yours.
Three pages.
Three sentences.
One hour.
Twenty minutes.
Time isn’t the issue.
Discipline is.
If you have kids, write in the cracks.
If you have a commute, steal the time.
If you watch two hours of Netflix at night, you have time to write--you’re just choosing comfort over clarity.
One hour a day for one year is 365 hours.
That’s a book, a blog, a portfolio, a transformation.
Routine is the doorway.
Step through it.
6. Write What You Know — But Not How You Think
“Write what you know” doesn’t mean retell your life story.
It means pull from the textures of your world: the people, the gestures, the overheard conversations, the quiet tragedies, the strange details only you notice.
You know more than you think.
You just dismiss it because it feels ordinary. But ordinary to you is extraordinary to someone else. Writers are collectors.
We steal fragments from reality and repurpose them into truth.
Let life be your research lab.
7. Edit Last — No, Really
Editing too early is self-sabotage dressed as responsibility.
The draft is supposed to be messy.
Ugly.
Chaotic.
Unhinged.
First drafts aren’t literature--they’re raw material.
The writing process is simple:
Plan → Write → Edit.
In that order.
No exceptions.
The sooner you stop chasing perfection in phase one, the sooner you’ll actually create work worthy of perfection in phase three.
The Real Secret? Start Before You Feel Ready.
You didn’t have these truths yesterday.
You have them now.
So go write something imperfect.
Something real.
Something alive.
Then shape it into something unforgettable.
The paradox is simple: Your worst draft is the doorway to your best work. Walk through it.
Powerful issue. The “Understand the process or suffer through it” line was my favorite part. I’ve been drafting blind and spending twice as long fixing it. I’m going to try planning my next short piece (premise, stakes, arc) before typing a single sentence. If that saves even one edit pass, it’s worth it. Thank you for making the path forward feel practical, not something mystical. Another great informative piece for writers Idris Elijah!
This connected with me so much. Treating writing as a receiving act, rather than forcing perfection, feels like the missing gear in my songwriting. I’m going to try mixing morning pages into my music routine, just to unclog the pipes. Even if it’s just three messy pages about what I dreamed or what’s stressing me out, I think clearing out the noise will give me that clean runway for melodies and lyrics to land. If even one chorus shows up smoother because of this, that’s a win. Thank you for these very useful ideas Idris Elijah and have a great weekend!