The Writing Advice I Had to Unlearn

For most of my early writing years, I carried a heavy burden — the belief that every piece I wrote had to be perfect. Not simply good, or clear, or meaningful. Perfect. I thought a real writer produced flawless lines, poetic sentences, and complex structures that sounded like they belonged inside a university lecture hall rather than an actual conversation.

But perfection is not only unrealistic — it’s a barrier between you and your reader.

Most people don’t arrive at your article with a literary lens. They don’t sit down with a cup of coffee and prepare themselves for an emotional masterpiece. They open a search bar, type a few keywords, and click because your headline looked like the solution to whatever they were trying to understand.

If the writing greets them with jargon, decorative prose, or sentences so polished they begin to feel artificial, they disconnect. They stop reading. It’s not because the writing is bad; it’s because it’s not serving them. It’s serving your desire to impress.

That was the first lesson I had to unlearn: writing is not about perfection. It’s about clarity. And sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is write a sentence that is simple, human, and honest.

Unlearning Rule #1: Writing Has Universal Rules

People often compare writing to ballet, violin, filmmaking, or painting — structured fields where mentorship, technique, and tradition form the backbone of the craft. Ballet has posture. Music has scales. Film has storyboards. Even painting has brush techniques passed down through generations.

But writing? Writing is the only art that doesn’t require permission.

Anyone with a keyboard — or even a typewriter, if you enjoy the charm of old-school clacking — can create entire worlds, characters, arguments, emotional arcs, and ideas. No classroom required. No rulebook handed down from a master. No approval from a gatekeeper.

And that’s precisely why writing is intimidating for beginners. With no rules, you think you have to figure everything out alone. And with no rules, you feel like the rules everyone else quotes must somehow be true:

Write every day.

Avoid adverbs.

Outline everything.

Use active voice.

Never break grammar.

The truth? All of these are tools, not laws.

When I finally accepted that writing is not ballet — that it doesn’t require rigid discipline, only honest expression — I felt liberated. I stopped trying to sound like a writer and started letting my writing sound like me.

Unlearning Rule #2: Real Writers Write Every Day

One of the most persistent pieces of advice in the writing world is: Write daily if you want to be taken seriously.

But creativity isn’t a factory with a conveyor belt. Inspiration does not clock in at 9 a.m. and take a lunch break at 1 p.m. Thoughts arrive unannounced — while washing dishes, walking through the grocery store, or losing your patience in traffic.

Forcing yourself to write every day can make writing feel like a chore, a task you must complete rather than an idea you want to explore.

The advice I now give is simple:

Write when something sparks. Capture it when it’s alive.

I keep a diary and pen with me at all times. Old-school, yes — but deeply effective. Whenever a phrase or thought or feeling passes through me, I write it down. Those scattered notes become the seeds of some of my best work.

This approach not only protects the joy of writing — it preserves authenticity. You’re writing when you care, not when you’re obligated.

Unlearning Rule #3: Academic Writing Sets the Standard for “Good” Writing

For years, I measured my writing against my Literature classes. I compared every sentence to the masterpieces assigned in my coursework and judged myself harshly: This doesn’t sound academic enough. This would never pass in class.

But the purpose of academic writing is not the purpose of creative or content writing.

Academic writing exists to analyze, argue, and critique.

Content writing exists to communicate, connect, and clarify.

Creative writing exists to evoke, explore, and express.

When I joked to my teacher that I needed to “unlearn my entire Literature degree,” I meant it halfway. But as I thought more deeply, I realized something important:

Good writing is not universal — it is deeply subjective.

A novel is considered “great literature” not because it follows the perfect rules but because it influenced someone. Because it made someone feel something. Because it carried an experience that mattered to a reader.

In fact, many of the most successful writers became successful not by following the rules but by breaking them.

The Book That Changed My Thinking

In my 18th Century British Literature class, we read Samuel Richardson’s Pamela. I had a dramatic, visceral reaction to it — not admiration, but frustration. The plot, moral messaging, and emotional manipulation made me furious.

And surprisingly, I loved that I hated it.

That was the moment I realized something powerful:

Emotional response — even negative — is proof that writing worked.

Sometimes the books that infuriate us stay in our minds far longer than the ones we quietly admire. The goal of writing is not to be universally liked. It’s to make a reader feel something unforgettable.

So What Makes a Writer, Really?

Not rules.

Not grammar perfection.

Not creating textbook-worthy paragraphs.

Not producing “beautiful” language that loses readers five lines in.

A writer is someone who can take a feeling, a thought, an observation, or a question and translate it into words that reach another person. Someone who can make a stranger stop and think:

I understand this.

I needed this.

This feels like my experience too.

You can follow every writing rule and still fail to move anyone.

You can break every writing rule and make someone cry, laugh, or change their mind.

Writing isn’t about imitating your favorite authors or chasing what has already been accepted as “good.” Imitation suffocates your voice. It traps you inside someone else’s shadow.

What We All Need to Unlearn

Unlearn the belief that perfection matters.

Unlearn the belief that writing has rules etched in stone.

Unlearn the belief that daily writing defines discipline.

Unlearn the belief that academic excellence equals writing excellence.

Unlearn the belief that your writing must sound like someone else’s to be worthy.

What matters is your voice — flawed, emotional, unpolished, but unmistakably yours.

Someone out there doesn’t need the perfect article. They need your article.

Not the one shaped by rules.

The one shaped by truth.