The One Common Piece of Writing Advice You Should Ignore

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Abstract

.Did I become an “expert” on these subjects? Perhaps, but I don’t like to use that word. Writers are not experts. In many ways, they are the opposite.The expert knows more and more about less and less; the writer knows more and more about more and more. The expert has reached the pinnacle of their knowledge; the writer is just beginning the climb. The expert is a know-it-all, the writer a see-it-all. Good writers make connections that are unexpected but true. They link seemingly disparate ideas, ones that would never occur to the expert. The unassailable knowledge of the expert is a dead thing; the emergent knowledge that writers capture is fluid and alive.Writing is a process of discovery, one where the reader comes along for the ride. Epiphanies only count if they are earned.When I begin teaching one of my writing workshops, I ask participants to introduce themselves and reveal three of their obsessions. Everybody has them. It is these preoccupations that often provide the raw material for their writing. Behind each obsession lies a thirst for knowledge. Why do birds fascinate me so much? What is it about misaligned picture frames that drives me bonkers?Good writers, no matter the genre, have skin in the game. As Robert Frost said, “No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.” You can’t be surprised if you write about what you know; you can be surprised if you write about what you want to know. (As for the tears, they’re a given.)On the page, I share not

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only my acquired knowledge but my methods as well. How did I come to know what I now know? For me, writing is a process of discovery, one where the reader comes along for the ride. Epiphanies only count if they are earned.Another problem with the “write about what you know” maxim is that it leaves little space for imagination. If authors only wrote about what they knew, and only what they knew, Yann Martel would never have written Life of Pi, since he doesn’t “know” what it’s like to be a Bengal tiger after all, and Michael Lewis never would have written Moneyball, since he’s never played major league baseball or managed a team.This new way of thinking about writing can take many forms. You might start with a tabula rasa. You’ve never learned how to swim, and this troubles you, so you dive into the deep end, so to speak, and write about what you want to know. In another case, you think you know something but want to probe that knowledge, challenge it. Maybe you think you know what courage is, but set out to test that knowledge.There are different kinds of knowledge. Typically, we think of knowledge as a fact, or collection of facts, that is empirically verifiable. You know that two plus two equals four, and can prove it. But there is also subjective knowledge, and it is no less important. You know that you love your daughter and the fact that you can’t “prove” it doesn’t diminish your love. If anything, it enlarges it. It is this subjective knowledge, and the thirst for it, that shapes our interior lives and is worth writing about.</article></body>

‘Write what you know’ leaves little space for imagination

Photo: MixMedia / Getty Images

Write what you know.

It is probably the most popular piece of writing advice. Every day, at workshops and college classrooms across the land, this axiom is drilled into aspiring writers as if it were gospel. It is not. In fact, it is dead wrong.

Don’t write about what you know. Write about what you want to know. There is a world of difference. Writing about what you know is stale and predictable. Writing about what you want to know is fresh and unexpected.

What excites writers, the good ones, is not knowledge but the search for it. It is this thoroughly conscious ignorance, and the fierce desire to vanquish it, that gets me out of bed each morning.

I’ve written four books: on happiness, spirituality, creative genius, and philosophical wisdom. When I started each project, I knew little about these topics. By the time I finished, I knew a lot more.

Did I become an “expert” on these subjects? Perhaps, but I don’t like to use that word. Writers are not experts. In many ways, they are the opposite.

The expert knows more and more about less and less; the writer knows more and more about more and more. The expert has reached the pinnacle of their knowledge; the writer is just beginning the climb. The expert is a know-it-all, the writer a see-it-all. Good writers make connections that are unexpected but true. They link seemingly disparate ideas, ones that would never occur to the expert. The unassailable knowledge of the expert is a dead thing; the emergent knowledge that writers capture is fluid and alive.

Writing is a process of discovery, one where the reader comes along for the ride. Epiphanies only count if they are earned.

When I begin teaching one of my writing workshops, I ask participants to introduce themselves and reveal three of their obsessions. Everybody has them. It is these preoccupations that often provide the raw material for their writing. Behind each obsession lies a thirst for knowledge. Why do birds fascinate me so much? What is it about misaligned picture frames that drives me bonkers?

Good writers, no matter the genre, have skin in the game. As Robert Frost said, “No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.” You can’t be surprised if you write about what you know; you can be surprised if you write about what you want to know. (As for the tears, they’re a given.)

On the page, I share not only my acquired knowledge but my methods as well. How did I come to know what I now know? For me, writing is a process of discovery, one where the reader comes along for the ride. Epiphanies only count if they are earned.

Another problem with the “write about what you know” maxim is that it leaves little space for imagination. If authors only wrote about what they knew, and only what they knew, Yann Martel would never have written Life of Pi, since he doesn’t “know” what it’s like to be a Bengal tiger after all, and Michael Lewis never would have written Moneyball, since he’s never played major league baseball or managed a team.

This new way of thinking about writing can take many forms. You might start with a tabula rasa. You’ve never learned how to swim, and this troubles you, so you dive into the deep end, so to speak, and write about what you want to know. In another case, you think you know something but want to probe that knowledge, challenge it. Maybe you think you know what courage is, but set out to test that knowledge.

There are different kinds of knowledge. Typically, we think of knowledge as a fact, or collection of facts, that is empirically verifiable. You know that two plus two equals four, and can prove it. But there is also subjective knowledge, and it is no less important. You know that you love your daughter and the fact that you can’t “prove” it doesn’t diminish your love. If anything, it enlarges it. It is this subjective knowledge, and the thirst for it, that shapes our interior lives and is worth writing about.