Popular Writing Advice That's Actually Bad
Write what you know. The thing is, most of what you know is probably boring. We don’t need another divorce memoir, and we definitely don’t need another novel in which a shy, horny young man navigates the Brooklyn literary scene. (I will support whichever political party makes it illegal to publish another one of those, no matter how odious the rest of their positions.)
Instead of writing about what you already know, try tackling something unfamiliar and taking your reader along as you figure it out. Alternatively, you can just make stuff up.
I’m not saying you can never write about what you know: doing so can be a good idea if you know about something really awesome like hostage negotiation, or if you’re Keith Richards. But if either of those things were true, you probably wouldn’t be seeking out writing advice in the first place.
Show, don’t tell. This maxim has pushed too many writers into overwrought lines like “The edges of Fred’s mouth tipped downwards as his forehead reddened and brow furrowed” when they could have just written “Fred was mad.” Think of your friends who tell the best stories: do they stuff every sentence with unnecessary imagery, or do they just, you know, tell you what happened? This advice is the opposite of an actual good tip, which is to write more like how you talk.
Kill your darlings. Here’s a crazy idea: instead of getting rid of the good parts of your writing, how about getting rid of… cue suspenseful music… the bad parts? Yes, occasionally a piece of writing can be improved by removing a great line that just doesn’t belong. But most of the time, if you have a sentence or scene that’s particularly compelling, you should probably try to keep it in there. If it truly doesn’t fit no matter what you do, it might actually be the rest of the piece that needs to be removed.
Know your audience. If you really wanted to know people, presumably you would have taken up one of the more social art forms, like improv or barbershop quartet. Besides, avid readers are generally weirdos who you’re better off not knowing. I would rather never write a single word ever again—not even a grocery list or condolence note—than be forced to know even the slightest detail about any of you vile freaks.
Knowing your audience in a more general sense—understanding what they’re interested in and what they want out of your work—is an even worse idea. You can always tell when a writer wants to please their audience too much: the desperation seeps through every sentence, and it’s disgusting. The best writers maintain a healthy distrust of their audience, and in some cases are motivated by a desire to actively repel them.
Disclaimer: I do support “knowing” your audience in the biblical sense. If interested, respond to this email.
Don’t write about erotic octopus wrestling. Perhaps the worst tip of all: every great book has at least one libidinous octopus tussle. Who can forget the charged writhings of Inky and Wrigglesworth in The Great Gatsby, or the sensual tentacle interlock between Eight-Legs and Sucksy near the end of Lincoln in the Bardo? The only possible explanation for the ceaseless spread of this so-called “advice” is a conspiracy by Big Author to keep aspiring writers in their place by hogging the powers of cephalopod entanglement for themselves. Don’t fall for it.
Cut unnecessary words. This one sounds good at first—ditch a “needless to say” here, an “in my opinion” there, and soon your writing is flowing much more smoothly. But where does it end? When you really think about it, all of your writing is probably unnecessary. I mean, does anyone really need this newsletter? If I cut out all the unnecessary words, there’d be nothing left.