What I’ve Learned as a Writer
By Leo Babauta

I’ve been a professional writer since I was 17: so nearly 24 years now. I’ve made my living with words, and have written a lot of them — more than 10 million (though many of them were duplicates).

That means I’ve made a ton of errors. Lots of typos. Lots of bad writing.

Being a writer means I’ve failed a lot, and learned a few things in the process.

Now, some of you may be aspiring writers (or writers looking for inspiration from a colleague). Others might not ever want to be a writer, but you should still care about writing. I’ll tell you why: it’s an incredible tool for learning about yourself. And if you’re an effective writer, you’re an effective communicator, thinker, salesperson, businessperson, persuader.

So for anyone interested in writing, I’d love to share what I’ve learned so far.

    Write every **** day. Yes, even weekends. Yes, even when you’re busy with other crap. Each day I write a blog post, an article for Sea Change, part of my new book, or perhaps part of a novel. If I don’t have enough to write every day, I start a new writing project. I write at least 1,000 words a day, but you don’t have to write that much. Writing daily makes it a routine thing, so you never have to think about it. You just do it. It gets much easier, less intimidating. You get better at it. It’s like talking with a friend: just how you express yourself.
    Create a blog if you don’t have one. Whether or not you’re a writer, you should have a blog. Why? Because it’s a great way to reach an audience, to practice writing on a daily basis, to reflect on what you’ve been learning, to share that with others so they might benefit, to engage in a wider conversation, to learn about yourself. Anyone who wants to learn about themselves should have a blog. (Protip: Try Sett to start a blog — it’s a great way to grow an audience and community.)
    Write plainly. I think this is from Strunk & White, but it works well for me. I write in plain language, leaving the flowery stuff for others. Academic writing is the worst — it’s so stilted no one wants to read it unless they want to show others how smart they are. Technical jargon, business-speak, pretentious vocabulary, insider acronyms … none of them have any place in communicating with your fellow human beings. Only use those things if you want to hide the fact that you don’t know what you’re talking about.
    Don’t write just to hear yourself talk. Lots of people like to go on and on about themselves and their lives, but readers don’t come for that. Readers come for their own purposes. You’re reading this to get ideas for yourself as a writer, not to hear the life story of Leo the amazing writer in technicolor detail. Now, you can tell stories about yourself if they’re vividly entertaining or inspirational or really instructive. But have a purpose, and be sure you’re meeting that purpose. Don’t just ramble.
    Nearly everything can be shortened. Including this post, of course. I could probably cut 25% of this post and get away with it (I’ve already cut 25%). Go through your sentences and ask: is this necessary? What purpose does it serve? How would this read without it? And if you can, drop it. It makes your work more readable, clearer.
    Fear stops most potential writers. Most people don’t write (publicly at least) because they’re afraid their writing will ****. Well, it will. Everyone ***** at first. You don’t get better at something by sitting on your hands. **** it up, put yourself out there. You won’t have many readers at first, when you ****, but as your audience grows so will your skills.
    Read regularly for inspiration. I might write more than 1,000 words a day, but I read 10 times that. I read books and (online) magazines and blogs and more. Reading gives me ideas, shows me better ways to write, gives me access to the best teachers in my craft (amazing writers).
    Procrastination is your friend. Every writer lives daily with procrastination. If you allow yourself to feel guilty about that, then you’ll feel bad about yourself as a writer. Instead, embrace your procrastination as a friend, enjoy it … and then ask the friend to leave for awhile so you can get your work done. No friend should monopolize all your time. Get your writing done, then invite the friend back when you have free time.
    Have people expect your writing. This is another reason blogs are fantastic: if you build up an audience, you feel the pressure of their expectations. This pressure is a good thing — it keeps procrastination from taking over your life. You know the audience expects you to write, so you get off your **** and you do it. Before I had a blog, my editors were the people expecting my writing.
    Email is an excuse. We often go to check email because it feels productive (and it can be), but it’s easy to use that as a way to put off the writing. Honestly, if you close your email for a couple hours, nothing bad will happen. Close it, close everything else, and get to writing. Your email will be waiting for you when you’re done.
    Writing tools don’t matter. Most people tinker with their writing tools, trying to find the perfect system. ***** that. You can write with anything, as long as you have a keyboard. Yes, I much prefer typing to writing by hand, because I’m much faster at typing. I can get the words out closer to the speed of my thinking. But what writing program I use is irrelevant: I write in TextEdit, Sublime Text, Ommwriter, Byword, Notational Velocity, in the WordPress or Sett editor in the browser, in Google Docs. Just open up a new document and start writing.
    Jealousy is idiotic. Writers can often be insecure types — perhaps it’s a byproduct of putting your soul out in the world for all to criticize. So they’re often jealous of the success of other writers. That’s a complete waste of time and energy. It does you no good as a writer. Instead, learn from the success of others, see what’s good about you, and merge the two. Be happy for people. It’ll make you happier too.
    Writing can change lives. When I publish a post, I hope it’ll be of use to someone. But the responses I get are often incredible — people tell me how much a post or my blog in general has changed their lives. I’m blown away by this. When you put something with good intention out in the world, you have no idea what kind of impact it might have on others. It might do nothing, but it could have a profound effect on someone’s life. That’s truly powerful. That’s truly a reason to get up and write.

And one thing I’ve learned, above all, is this: the life that my writing has changed more than any other is my own. Writing for you has changed me, in ways I am only beginning to grasp. In wonderful, crazy, lift-you-off-the-ground kind of ways. And that makes me want to do it forever.

Oh! could I hope the wise and pure in heart
Might hear my song without a frown, nor deem
My voice unworthy of the theme it tries,--
I would take up the hymn to Death, and say
To the grim power, The world hath slandered thee
And mocked thee. On thy dim and shadowy brow
They place an iron crown, and call thee king
Of terrors, and the spoiler of the world,
Deadly assassin, that strik'st down the fair,
The loved, the good--that breath'st upon the lights
Of virtue set along the vale of life,
And they go out in darkness. I am come,
Not with reproaches, not with cries and prayers,
Such as have stormed thy stern insensible ear
From the beginning. I am come to speak
Thy praises. True it is, that I have wept
Thy conquests, and may weep them yet again:
And thou from some I love wilt take a life
Dear to me as my own. Yet while the spell
Is on my spirit, and I talk with thee
In sight of all thy trophies, face to face,
Meet is it that my voice should utter forth

Thy nobler triumphs: I will teach the world
To thank thee.--Who are thine accusers?--Who?
The living!--they who never felt thy power,
And know thee not. The curses of the wretch
Whose crimes are ripe, his sufferings when thy hand
Is on him, and the hour he dreads is come,
Are writ among thy praises. But the good--
Does he whom thy kind hand dismissed to peace,
Upbraid the gentle violence that took off
His fetters, and unbarred his prison cell?
Raise then the Hymn to Death. Deliverer!
God hath anointed thee to free the oppressed
And crush the oppressor. When the armed chief,
The conqueror of nations, walks the world,
And it is changed beneath his feet, and all
Its kingdoms melt into one mighty realm--
Thou, while his head is loftiest, and his heart
Blasphemes, imagining his own right hand
Almighty, sett'st upon him thy stern grasp,
And the strong links of that tremendous chain
That bound mankind are crumbled; thou dost break
Sceptre and crown, and beat his throne to dust.
Then the earth shouts with gladness, and her tribes
Gather within their ancient bounds again.
Else had the mighty of the olden time,
******, Sesostris, or the youth who feigned
His birth from Lybian Ammon, smote even now
The nations with a rod of iron, and driven
Their chariot o'er our necks. Thou dost avenge,
In thy good time, the wrongs of those who know

No other friend. Nor dost thou interpose
Only to lay the sufferer asleep,
Where he who made him wretched troubles not
His rest--thou dost strike down his tyrant too.
Oh, there is joy when hands that held the scourge
Drop lifeless, and the pitiless heart is cold.
Thou too dost purge from earth its horrible
And old idolatries; from the proud fanes
Each to his grave their priests go out, till none
Is left to teach their worship; then the fires
Of sacrifice are chilled, and the green moss
O'ercreeps their altars; the fallen images
Cumber the weedy courts, and for loud hymns,
Chanted by kneeling crowds, the chiding winds
Shriek in the solitary aisles. When he
Who gives his life to guilt, and laughs at all
The laws that God or man has made, and round
Hedges his seat with power, and shines in wealth,--
Lifts up his atheist front to scoff at Heaven,
And celebrates his shame in open day,
Thou, in the pride of all his crimes, cutt'st off
The horrible example. Touched by thine,
The extortioner's hard hand foregoes the gold
Wrong from the o'er-worn poor. The perjurer,
Whose tongue was lithe, e'en now, and voluble
Against his neighbour's life, and he who laughed
And leaped for joy to see a spotless fame
Blasted before his own foul calumnies,
Are smit with deadly silence. He, who sold
His conscience to preserve a worthless life,

Even while he hugs himself on his escape,
Trembles, as, doubly terrible, at length,
Thy steps o'ertake him, and there is no time
For parley--nor will bribes unclench thy grasp.
Oft, too, dost thou reform thy victim, long
Ere his last hour. And when the reveller,
Mad in the chase of pleasure, stretches on,
And strains each nerve, and clears the path of life
Like wind, thou point'st him to the dreadful goal,
And shak'st thy hour-glass in his reeling eye,
And check'st him in mid course. Thy skeleton hand
Shows to the faint of spirit the right path,
And he is warned, and fears to step aside.
Thou sett'st between the ruffian and his crime
Thy ghastly countenance, and his slack hand
Drops the drawn knife. But, oh, most fearfully
Dost thou show forth Heaven's justice, when thy shafts
Drink up the ebbing spirit--then the hard
Of heart and violent of hand restores
The treasure to the friendless wretch he wronged.
Then from the writhing ***** thou dost pluck
The guilty secret; lips, for ages sealed,
Are faithless to the dreadful trust at length,
And give it up; the felon's latest breath
Absolves the innocent man who bears his crime;
The slanderer, horror smitten, and in tears,
Recalls the deadly obloquy he forged
To work his brother's ruin. Thou dost make
Thy penitent victim utter to the air
The dark conspiracy that strikes at life,

And aims to whelm the laws; ere yet the hour
Is come, and the dread sign of ****** given.
Thus, from the first of time, hast thou been found
On virtue's side; the wicked, but for thee,
Had been too strong for the good; the great of earth
Had crushed the weak for ever. Schooled in guile
For ages, while each passing year had brought
Its baneful lesson, they had filled the world
With their abominations; while its tribes,
Trodden to earth, imbruted, and despoiled,
Had knelt to them in worship; sacrifice
Had smoked on many an altar, temple roofs
Had echoed with the blasphemous prayer and hymn:
But thou, the great reformer of the world,
Tak'st off the sons of violence and fraud
In their green pupilage, their lore half learned--
Ere guilt has quite o'errun the simple heart
God gave them at their birth, and blotted out
His image. Thou dost mark them, flushed with hope,
As on the threshold of their vast designs
Doubtful and loose they stand, and strik'st them down.

Alas, I little thought that the stern power
Whose fearful praise I sung, would try me thus
Before the strain was ended. It must cease--
For he is in his grave who taught my youth
The art of verse, and in the bud of life
Offered me to the muses. Oh, cut off
Untimely! when thy reason in its strength,
Ripened by years of toil and studious search

And watch of Nature's silent lessons, taught
Thy hand to practise best the lenient art
To which thou gavest thy laborious days.
And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earth
Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes
And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill
Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned pale
When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thou
Shalt not, as wont, o'erlook, is all I have
To offer at thy grave--this--and the hope
To copy thy example, and to leave
A name of which the wretched shall not think
As of an enemy's, whom they forgive
As all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, thou
Whose early guidance trained my infant steps--
Rest, in the ***** of God, till the brief sleep
Of death is over, and a happier life
Shall dawn to waken thine insensible dust.
Now thou art not--and yet the men whose guilt
Has wearied Heaven for vengeance--he who bears
False witness--he who takes the orphan's bread,
And robs the widow--he who spreads abroad
Polluted hands in mockery of prayer,
Are left to cumber earth. Shuddering I look
On what is written, yet I blot not out
The desultory numbers--let them stand.
The record of an idle revery.

Love in Fantastique Triumph satt,
Whilst bleeding Hearts around him flow'd,
For whom Fresh pains he did create,
And strange Tryanic power he show'd;
From thy Bright Eyes he took his fire,
Which round about, in sport he hurl'd;
But 'twas from mine he took desire,
Enough to undo the Amorous World.
From me he took his sighs and tears,
From thee his Pride and Crueltie;
From me his Languishments and Feares,
And every Killing Dart from thee;
Thus thou and I, the God have arm'd,
And sett him up a Deity;
But my poor Heart alone is harm'd,
Whilst thine the Victor is, and free.

Whilst strolling in the countryside    
I had time to dwell    
On deeply profound questions    
Like: Do badger farts have a smell?    
      
I pondered as I wandered    
On this important thought    
And then I found a badger sett    
And so I thought I ought    
      
To settle this complex question    
That had bothered me all day    
I stuck my silly head down there    
Boy was I was made to pay    
      
For when a badger thinks he’s trapped    
He lets  go a tremendous ****    
The stench was green and nauseous
And **** near stopped my heart    
      
Trying to withdraw in haste    
I ran out of luck    
For no matter how I wriggled    
My head was  firmly stuck    
      
A passer by chanced on me    
But he was not a friend    
He stole my shoes and trousers    
Exposing my rear end    
      
The farmer who dug me out  
Laughed until he cried    
I had to walk home bare of ****    
Whilst covering my pride    
      
So now I've learned a lesson    
With experiments to be frugal    
I’ll wait until I get back home    
And look it up on Google

The ten speed biker was coasting down hill
about 20 MPH when he took a spill,
He's moving on, He's moving on!
He hit the brake a little too late, He's moving on!

The ten speed biker was do'n ok,
Till he an old Tom Cat got in his way,
He's mov'n on, he's a mov'n on.
He tried it to miss, but the ground he kissed,
He's mov'n on!

The 10 speed biker broke down in tears,
climbing up a hill he ran out of gears,
He's a-moving on, he's moving on.
He had to call his nurse, when he went in reverse,
He mov'n on, he's mov'n on!

The ten speed biker was a do'n  ok, till he saw a pretty girl,
and he looked her way, he's mov'n on, he's mov'n on.
His bike is a wreck and so is his neck, he's mov'n on.
                (She wasn't worth look'n at  any way)

Welll, the ten speed biker was hav'n no trouble,
Till he tried to ride through a big mud puddle,
He's a mov'n on,
Now he's filthy sight, and so is his bike
But he'll soon be mov'n on, be a mov'n on.

The 10 speed biker hit a serious cog,
When he got chased by a mangy ol' dog,
He tried mov'n (faster) on,
But he ran of of luck, 'n got bit in the ****,
He's mov'n (a little slower) but he's still mov'n on.

[This next stanza was written by my 7 yr. old Grandson.)
The ten speed biker do'n 'bout 25  and didn't see
the  big hornet hive, he's moving on, he's mov'n on.
You could him cry'n "I think Im dy'n!
He's mov'n on, yeah mov'n on!

(This last stanza is a true experience when I was 65 yrs old)
The ten speed biker had good control, till he waved at a friend,
and ran off the road, he stopped mov'n on,  stopped mov'n on.
Now he's sett'n home with  broken ribs and a collar bone ,
He' NOT  mov'n on! yeah he's NOT NO LONGER MOV'N ON!

[I didn't have all these experiences, but wrote this poem to
  an old country western song tune.   by G.E.Parson

I’ve been warned of your dang’rous fickleness,
That one word could be the one fatal flaw.
I find myself waiting, sett’ling for less,
Watching from afar your beauty in awe.
I see you every once in a while
as you pass my way and ev’ry time I wish
that you would softly look at me and smile.
When will you love me? The time feels sluggish.
But, what can I do to make your sweet love
Come to me faster.  I can’t make the days
short just as I can’t move the sky above.
I can only your form quietly praise.
And I will do just that every day
Until to me your attention will pay.

...(still in the manner of Ogden Nash)


This badger is large and of course, lives underground
He barks like a dog, and makes quite a sound
He’s got massive claws so I keep far away
But then, he doesn’t visit much down my way.

I recently saw him go after an eel
He walloped him hard and it made a loud squeal
Then next he tried to provoke a large cat
Which simply swanned off, well fancy that!

Old brock then went after a giant eagle owl
Well he’s not exactly your domestic fowl
The owl flew up with things left unsaid
But dropped a large message right on his head.

That badger, a glutton in more ways than one
Next tried to see off a massive white swan
Who just raised his wings in a mighty display
Old brock disappeared for the rest of the day.

Soon after the badger’s done his vanishing trick
All of the birds burst out fast and thick
And meeses and voles had their best time yet
Knowing old brock was asleep in his sett.

©Joe Wilson – An unfortunate badger…2015

[I] couldn't speak so I sett[l]ed.
But y[o]u asked again just before I could find the words.
I mo[v]ed a muscle, turn[e]d around to face [y]ou,
Sealing yet another n[o]n existent space.
If only yo[u] knew what resided within.

I got weapons in place
Just incase
Of sett trippin' cold rippin'
Out them demons heart
Took on the part
From where it all start
My birth i knew my worth
Made to crumble nations
Against me exposing secrecy
To better me
**** this life it aint living
While these politics winning
Scores been fixed
Wars been fix
Saying they want peace
Its just a prefix
So they can get you beguile
Lost in the wild demons love to smile
Right in front of you
Check the tvs and they manuscript
Got folks lost a total crypt
Soon to the morge poor George
Aint catching on
The band plays on same ol song
With a different tune soon
These muthaphukkaz will know who i be?
Kin to makaveli takin shots
At the belly
Of the beast and the owl foul
So how you like me now?
Washington i see you duckin'
And tuckin' away
From North Korea soon to get a ******'.
Dumping led on yo *** for the past
You cant **** a whole nation
And not expect a retaliation
Rebellion from the civilians
We wakin up the masses
**** the task force and what they thought
We makin ****** corpses
Soundin my troops dont be alarm
Its just rebels doing the harm
Kiss my good luck charm
Black Jesus i see yo tears
Running down to replenish the earth
Nah mean
Remember Bobby Kennedy
Said what if you died and God was black like me ya see
I know my enemies i learned
And studied well
Take on any pressures straight
Out of hell and still bail
In this game of life
Until im free leaving a trace
Of death faces
Cuz i got many weapons in place

tunga täcken och dina andetag
bläcket i din hud och dina fina ord
jag glömmer nästan att sängen är dekorerad med mitt blod
fläckar som du låter finnas kvar

du känns som mitt paradis
för ibland vill du hålla om mig
men oftast vill du ha mer
dina händer är för ivriga och blåmärken är bevis
du ser ledsen ut men du fortsätter ändå
jag tror att det är okej för du vill ju ha mig

jag vill gråta
du vill romantisera
du säger ju att jag är fin när jag gråter
även när det är du som orsakat tårarna
gillar du det?
är du stolt?
för mina ögon brinner när dina bara är blå

jag är en saga och du är min prins
det finns ingen krona på ditt huvud
så du låter makten koras i dina händer istället
men det är
                      okej
vi är okej

du greppar hårt och blåser på såren
lämnar mig för ett bloss från cigaretten
jag känner lukten av rök på dina kläder
men jag vet att jag inte ska fråga
aldrig ifrågasätta
för då hade jag kanske sett
att dina ord var mjuka men din säng var hård
att dina löften vara stora men dina lögner var större
jag faller alltid för dig ändå

jag håller dig i handen och allt jag säger är fel
mina kläder är värdelösa
mina ord är ett evigt eko
du varnar och du säger
                                           f ö r l å t
men du vet aldrig vad du ber om ursäkt för

alkohol i vårt blod och mina tårar på din kudde
din själ som låtsas vara trasig
min själ som skriker ditt namn
aldrig någonsin hittar de till varandra igen
för illusionen är förstörd och till **** får jag syn
du är inget mästerverk och jag tycker synd om de andra
de som ser när dina ögon blir mörka
de som ser dina läppar runt en flaska

mörka väggar och du är borta
någon dag kommer du få höra
om natten jag spenderade hos din vän
eller telefonsamtalen från personen du träffade senast för en kvart sen
viskningar på stan och folk som ser igenom dig
du är en kliché
och inget känns okej längre

it’s the dawn
finally broken
into half

the sun sett(l)ing
down forever

the moonshine fading
in the dimming glares
of the stars

i can see everything
in the imminent darkness
that is now

my tears
are black like
the sky against the world

my smile is tired
of the frowns and
the laughter

as the clock strikes 12
and i fall asleep (forever)

i am rudely awakened by
the sun screaming
into my half closed eyes

Jogging
På vein til landsbyen så jeg ville orkediers
men en joggene kvinne hadde også sett dem
Når det gjelder bloster er alle kvinner tyver,
*** stopped plukked blostene og fortsatte å jogge
antagelig på vei hjem til å sette orkidene in en vase
å beundre dem for noen dager.
Jeg var sint ville blomster bør stå i fred til glede
for mage andre som gikk denne veien.
I en butikk så jeg kunstige bloster de ser naturlige ut
kvinnen kunne ha kjøpt disse og latt naturen i fred.
*** var mager, middlealdren med an liten rumpe
og små bryster, *** jogget i ett fosøk å se ungdomelig
og ansiket hadde forstennet utrykk som følge
av en ansikt løfting, og det er jo ok, men *** skulle
ikke ha tukkled med tidens gange.