WRITERLY LIFE/INSPIRATION

You Make Me Want to Be a Better Writer

To tweak Jack Nicholson’s immortal line just a little

I recently read Colson Whitehead’s “The Underground Railroad.” The novel details the conditions of slaves working on plantations during America’s Antebellum period (1812–1861).

The book portrays the dehumanization of these slaves, and the unimaginable brutality meted out to them. It was a hard read, but the narrative hooked me from page one. The writing was stark, robust, and fit the subject matter to a T.

But, inevitably, as I read, the thought ran alongside: I wish I could write like this…

The worm i’ the bud —

Like most writers, my reading addiction began in childhood. I read curled up in the backseat of our family car, sprawled on the sofa, or seated cross-legged on a blanket under the mango tree. When I picked up a book, tiny bubbles fizzed through my veins in anticipation of meeting larger-than-life characters or living vicarious experiences in faraway worlds.

When I was in my mid-30s, I began writing in earnest. It changed the way I read. Now I began comparing my work to that of the writers I admired — and always to my detriment. Is it worth writing, I asked myself, if the best one can turn out is mediocre prose?

The thought fed on my writing aspirations like a “worm i’ the bud.”¹

Wasn’t it enough to be a reader? To savor — and thank the Universe for — all the profound, funny, and phenomenal books that existed for my reading pleasure? Was it necessary to contribute my two cents? Who cared? What did it matter?

Turns out it did matter — to me. I had to write; I had to keep writing. To do otherwise would be like cutting off a limb.

Ultimately, the writing bug beat out the worm-i’-the-bud. This is one bug I am grateful for. Writing is my oasis. It has pulled me out of troughs and valleys and delivered me to a plateau of serenity.

They say comparisons are odious. Unfortunately, they are also inevitable.

I still compare myself to other writers but don’t beat up on myself as much. I also acknowledge what I am doing right. Still, as a writer (and human being) I am very much a work in progress.

To get back to Colson Whitehead —

I was writing my Puppeteering story while reading Colson Whitehead’s book. I hadn’t posted on Medium in a while and was in a great, great hurry to get this short piece out the door.

I revised the draft and ran it through Grammarly. I had said everything I needed to say; the ending was good to go. And yet I couldn’t hit “Submit.”

I went through the story and zeroed in on two sentences. Each had a decent amount of detail but sounded yawn-worthy when I read them out aloud. I had written: “We cut out our puppets from cardboard and glued ice cream sticks to their backs.” And, “During Covid, thanks to all the online shopping, we had a plethora of cardboard boxes in our living room.”

But I had read a chapter of Colson Whitehead’s book an hour before and was still under the spell of his words. I thought: Would he have written such dull prose?

I tried channeling a fraction of Whitehead’s brilliance and changed the sentences to: “Cardboard cutouts with ice cream sticks glued to their backs danced across our stage.” And: “During Covid, our living room swam in cardboard boxes.”

It is nowhere close to brilliant writing, but the verbs are stronger (even if I say so myself), and the sentences more succinct. Once I put those changes in place, I was able to hit “submit.”

The glimmer of reflected glory —

I find it easy to fall into the trap of lazy writing. I have to constantly steer myself away from clichés, sluggish verbs, and mechanical prose. And, sometimes, I succeed— although I still have difficulty conjuring up similes and metaphors.

When I read shining prose, it is as if some of that light glimmers on me. I feel a sudden bounce-n’-skip in my writing step. I proclaim my ideas to the world more confidently. I dust off words I haven’t used in a while, and air them without second guessing myself. Is this word over the top? Overused? Outdated? Or just plain boring?

All in all, I feel compelled to push myself harder. To strive for leaner and more vivid prose.

And that is how Colson Whitehead makes me want to be a better writer. He helped improve my Puppet story — even if it was by only two sentences. That’s a start.

[1]: William Shakespeare.‘Twelfth Night’ (1601) act 2, sc. 4,

And here’s the original clip from the great Jack Nicholson: (5:26)

Mario López-Goicoechea, Thank You for publishing my story! 📝