One of the best pieces of advice any writer can receive is the admonition to read constantly and widely. There’s no better writing class than the brilliant writers who have come before you—that’s not a revelation, it’s the sort of advice we all kind of know instinctively, I think.

The writing world can be a little insular. Once you start following agents and writers in Twitter and keeping up with all the spilled tea behind the publishing scenes, it gets a little echo-chambery, and part of that effect is the reading list. Every week there’s a new batch of book you’re “supposed” to read because it’s the new hot thing in literary circles, or because of its back-story, or simply because everyone on your feeds is talking about it.

You can’t go wrong reading anything, really, but sometimes you need to step back from the “must read” hot lists and read some book just because you want to.

Break Out

One of the most depressing things about life is that someday you will be gone, but people will continue to produce books, films, and other art. Yes, someday they will release a Star Wars movie and you will be dead, and thus unable to see it. And someday a novel that you would absolutely love will be released, and you will not be able to read it. Again, because in this scenario—in case it isn’t clear—you are dead.

Trying to keep up with the current hot takes in the literary world can be a bit exhausting, and it also means you’ll wind up reading a lot of books that just don’t do it for you. Nothing wrong with that; you can learn about your craft from any novel, good, bad, in your wheelhouse or so far out of it it’s not even in orbit around your wheelhouse.

But sometimes you need to feed your soul. Maybe that means taking a break to read some classics. Or some history. Or some trashy thrillers. Whatever your secret sauce, sometimes you have to put aside the new hotness out there and stop worrying about being able to jump into every single hashtag and just read for, you know, pleasure.

Me, I’m currently reading a history about restaurants in America. Will that ever be useful to me as research for my fiction, or teach me a better way to write a fight scene? Probably not. But damn, I’m enjoying it.

I know that in the field of writing advice, push yourself isn’t going to win any awards for originality. But there’s some advice that’s so important it’s worth repeating—a lot.

Growing up, I read epic fantasy almost exclusively. This was largely due to the fact that the first books I ever read obsessively were the Chronicles of Narnia. I loved those books so intensely I re-read them for months, and when I was finally ready to read something new, I sought out similar experiences. For a long time, if it had a sword, dragon, or wizard on the cover, I was there.

That reflected in my writing, too. My early work is all fantasy. It’s all wizards and swords and dragons and hand-drawn maps of imagined worlds. A lot of people get into these sorts of writing ruts, and for many those ruts last their whole lives. Even folks who jump between genres and styles fairly often can get trapped into writing the same things all the time. But it’s essential to push yourself, to force yourself to explore different genres and styles, to experiment.

The Diversion

I started working on a sci-fi novel last year. Titled Rough Beast, it’s 100% in my SFF wheelhouse as a writer, and there’s a certain joy in working inside a framework you find familiar and comfortable. I’m having a blast working on it.

Then, in the midst of working on Rough Beast I had an idea for a completely different kind of story. Not SFF, not mystery or crime, not weird in any way. It’s a concept for a novel that’s completely different from just about anything I’ve ever worked on before.

I didn’t wait to finish Rough Beast. I started alternating between the two novels, working on a chapter in one and then jumping to a chapter in the other. Working outside of my usual comfort zone has been pretty exciting and a lot of fun. Will I finish this other novel? Will it be successful? Will I sell it? Who knows? And right now, who cares? Because I’m enjoying working on it, and it’s opening up channels in my head that haven’t been opened before. That’s why pushing yourself is important.

If the book turns out to be an enormous disaster, of course, I’ll deny it ever existed and sue anyone who mentions this blog post.

There are a lot of writing exercises you can take on in order to challenge yourself and push your personal creative or technical boundaries, and there’s a lot to be said for writing that isn’t about earning a fee or even finishing a major project like a novel. Sometimes writing just to write is the best way to focus on the mechanics of it; in other words, remove the exciting idea and the thrill of creativity and you can really look at that sausage being made.

Of course, for those of us who do a lot of freelance writing, that’s already pretty clear. And believe me, once you see that sausage being made it’s impossible to get the image out of your head: Every preposition, clause, and simile haunts you.

Here’s an exercise I often find useful: Write about something boring.

The Thrill is Gone

Look, most of us started writing fiction because we wanted to create. We had ideas, and no one else was offering up exactly the kind of book we wanted to read, so we started making one up ourselves. It’s often that simple. Our desire to write was often born from a thrilling idea we simply had to explore.

That’s great! It also means we can sometimes lose sight of the actual writing because we’re so dazzled by the ideas.

To counter that, try an exercise wherein you write about something 100% boring. Write about brushing your teeth. Or sitting and staring at a wall. Or your job. Find ways to make that incredibly boring subject dance off the page, but also pay attention to your sentences, your phrasing, your vocabulary. Since you’re bored by the subject, you’ll be able to ignore it in favor of those mechanics, and your flaws and weak spots will be easier to see.

And heck, if you do manage to make something terribly dull interesting solely through the power of your words, that’s an achievement. Sadly, no one is hiring writers who can make the boring interesting (or, possibly, that’s what everyone is hiring us to do). Believe me, if they were, I’d be rich.

Writing is a terrible way to live your life. It’s frustrating, it pays poorly, and 90% of your efforts will be what literary scientists call “utter shit.” Those are facts.

Most writers start to figure this out when they begin to listen to the advice they get, most notably the whole “write every day” mantra. We’ve discussed the dubious value of this advice before, but in general there’s value to working on your craft on a regular basis, of course. The problem with writing every day is that you become very painfully aware of how often your writing is flat-out terrible.

Look at it this way: If you only write when you’re fired up with inspiration and energy, it will seem easy and be quite fun. All writers know that magical moment when the stars align and you have a great idea burning through you and the time and energy to work on it. The problem, of course, is that if you spend your life waiting for those magical moments you’ll die with just a small handful of short works completed, because those moments don’t happen often. You have to find a way to work consistently in order to produce work on a reliable basis, and that means you’ll discover just how often your work is confused, poorly-written, and dull.

That’s fine. It’s good for you.

Bitter Pill

It’s easy to imagine that other writers are effortless geniuses. They can dash off a brilliant novel over lunch, they can summon a perfect bon mot in any situation, their sentences are minty fresh in the first draft. This is almost certainly not true; all writers have to work at it.

Seeing your own crappy writing on a regular basis is how you learn to do better. It’s that simple. In the rush of delirious creativity you often overlook clunky sentences, logical fallacies, and overuse of clichés because you’re riding high on that creative energy, sort of the way a drunk driver ignores stop signs, traffic lights, and human beings in the cross walk. You’ll learn a lot about writing simply by reviewing your own daily work and realizing that it’s absolutely terrible, then figuring out why it’s terrible.

Trust me when I say that all writers create terrible prose, all the time. The key is learning to a) recognize your terrible prose and b) how to fix, replace, or otherwise mitigate it. Embrace your bad writing.

Of course, sometimes a writer can actually sell bad writing. Not that I would know anything about this. Look, over there! A unicorn! <throws smoke bomb, runs away>

I’m not much of a perfectionist. In my personal and professional life I’m kind of a hot mess in many ways, actually; I don’t plan ahead much and like to wing things—I’m the clichéd guy who tosses assembly instructions aside and just begins fitting things together. The end result is either exactly right or wrong in a terrifying or beautiful way.

In writing, I’m also not particularly worried about getting everything just-so. I’m a Pantser, of course, and that’s part of it—Pantser tend to charge ahead without worrying how they’re going to find their way back. But another part of it is just personality: I don’t like to get bogged down in details. I’m big-picture. I’d rather get the general story down on paper and then worry about fixing up the details later.

In other words, I like to fix things in post.

No CGI in Novels, Unfortunately

Some writers are meticulous planners who have every detail figured out before they start writing, but my first drafts tend to be hot messes of changing character names, disappearing characters, plot threads that go nowhere, and the occasional Truck Driver’s Tense Change. In movies, there’s a lot of post-production work that goes into fixing mistakes. Fixing things in “Post” is an accepted part of the process.

Why not apply that to novels? Obviously, all writers do just that—most of us revise our first drafts to some extent before showing them around to people. The trick is to internalize that fact and make it part of your tool chest—in other words, stop worrying about getting things correct as you write. Instead, barrel through and assume you’ll fix things in post—i.e., revision. The end result is a speedier path to a completed first draft, a big-picture story that works on the macro levels. All that will be left is to go back and fix up the micro stuff that you pushed past.

The advantage to this is simple: You’ll have more completed drafts. It’s easier to fix up small problems—even a lot of them—when you have a completed story than it is to stop everything and contemplate each small problem on its own as you encounter it. And the more completed drafts you have, the better chances you have of having something worth selling.

Of course, your mileage may vary. If your manuscript descends into literary madness because of this advice, I have a pocket full of smoke bombs and a bag full of new identities.