Why Is It So Difficult to Write About Writing?

And especially difficult to write about writing fiction?

The simplest explanation might be that no one actually knows how they create their stories, or write their books. Everyone seems to agree that doing so takes a great amount of dedication and hard work. But it's not clear what happens in the space between the idea for each scene, and the paragraphs that appear hours later. And I can't explain it, either. All I know is that once I get started, it works. I just have to effing START.

School teaches us a lot about the mechanics of writing. Most of the articles on writing that I've looked at focus mostly on, quite literally, how to write. Where the mind-to-paper story transcription process is nebulous at best, the rules of proper grammar and writing mechanics are quite clear. "You sit down at your computer and hit the keys. Meaningful sentences will emerge if you possess a tolerable command of english and grammar."

This is a gross oversimplification, obviously, but there are few pieces on writing that don't go there. The article on writing in the April 29th, 2013 edition of The New Yorker, titled On Writing, Draft No. 4, began by talking about writer's block. Complaints about the difficulties of being a writer followed (no recognition, constant self-doubt, flashes of inspiration giving way to drudgery, meager earnings). The author abruptly "pivoted" (if I can use a word that's become a popular euphemism for governments and administrations changing their minds, especially on international matters), to the importance of choosing exactly the right word, and why a dictionary is preferable to a thesaurus.

Admittedly, I enjoyed this part. His examples were interesting, even if they were a thinly veiled way for him to show off. He cited himself, showing excerpts from old pieces that, instead of using a word his brain initially supplied, became stronger for going to the dictionary and incorporating that word's definition.

Instead of being "assimilated" by the Alaskan wilderness, for example, he found himself "almost forcibly incorporated into the Alaskan wilderness," or something like that. It's strange to me to showcase examples of your own writing, to prove a point about your writing style, inside a piece that you're writing.

This leads me to another observation: it's difficult for us to resist showing off. I suspect the urge is part fascination with our cleverness, and part temporary rebellion against our chronic lack of confidence. The stronger we feel that most of our stuff is sewage, the more desperate we are to parade what few gems we've created.

Or maybe that's just me.

I know some writers who won't share anything. Of course, the usual reason for their reluctance is the fear that the writing is bad, and they will be judged accordingly. These people never think they've created anything worth sharing. There's really no difference between us, though, because ultimately we're all suffering from some form of delusion. I, from the delusion that the piece I'm sharing is better than it is, and them, from the delusion that nothing they've written is of any worth.

The New Yorker article ended with this author's observation that it takes him at least four drafts to get things right, and finally, a long account of The New Yorker's house style, and the conflicts he's had with the magazine's copyeditors over things like how to make the word "corps" possessive, as in, "The Army Corps of Engineers."

I walked away with the realization that this article wasn't aimed at me. It was aimed at people who want to hear what it's like to be a writer, but will never really try to become one. It was for people who want to hear a writer tell them stories about being a writer. What it wasn't about was writing.

As a writer, I find it's hard to overcome the urge to problem-solve when it comes to writing. The only real reason I haven't finished anything is that I haven't sat down and really tried. That's all there is to it. Period. End of story. Begin the usual excuses. Tired, time, work, emotional problems, hungry, don't feel like it, on and on.

I know this is the one and only problem, but even so, I still like to read about the elements of great writing, what it takes to create a novel, and so forth, as if my novel were a car engine. If only I could collect all the parts I need, then surely I'd be able to follow at least one of the myriad instruction manuals out there and wind up with a fully functioning engine (novel).

My personal belief, of course, is that this isn't the way things work. To be fair, this approach can be perfect for non-fiction, like memoirs, essays, and academic writing. It's not that such a structured approach can't also help a fiction writer, (I frequently outline, in very broad strokes, what I want my story to do), but I firmly believe that much of the fiction writing process is rather like an archaeological dig.

I'm uncovering the skeleton of a previously unknown dinosaur. I can imagine what the whole skeleton is going to look like, I can sketch my supposition beforehand, but there's no way to see how the whole thing fits together, except by slowly uncovering the entire thing, piece by painstaking piece. I learn so much about my own story by trying to tell it. Things I would never have dreamed up while outlining. In other words, while collecting advice and making lists and attending conferences and so on is usually helpful, there is no substitute for simply writing.

Because of this simple fact, writing (especially fiction) is an act of faith. You must believe in the existence of something that does not exist. Or more precisely, you must believe in the potential for something to exist—believe in your own ability to create it, even though you don't know exactly what it will look like, how it will sound, or what it will say.