An Open Letter to Writers in 3 Acts:
the Anguish & the Glory

Never doubt that thoughtful committed citizens can change the world; indeed it is the only thing that ever has.—Margaret Mead

I find myself writing this letter to so many of my clients when they reach that brick wall in their writing—you know the one I mean: the one that brings on writer’s block, alcoholism, total mental breakdown.

Man, it’s a long, hard road isn’t it?

This is the plot structure of becoming a writer:

1. ACT I

   • Hook:

     A smart, creative, likeable, internally-conflicted protagonist has a brilliant idea for a story.

   • Conflict #1:

     The protag has to get that story down in words—they get about as far as the climax of Act II and stall.

2. Act II
   • Conflict #2:

     The protag must go back through the entire story and rethink what they’re doing, where they’re going, who the hell these characters are. This takes them into dark and not-necessarily-pleasant places inside their own head and heart.

     But they persevere, and eventually they finish their manuscript.

   • Conflict #3:

     The protag lets their manuscript go cold—as advised—and comes back to it later ready to reshape the material into publishable condition.

     It turns out, sadly enough, that this manuscript SUCKS.

3. ACT III

   • Faux Resolution:

     The protag invests their hard-earned cash and even-harder-earned trust in a really good mentor, who leads them by the hand through the steps of writing a story, warning them along the way that this is a really painful and difficult journey that causes accelerated aging.

     However, the protag and mentor agree that their mutual love of the craft makes it all worthwhile in the end.

     The protag regains their original sense of hope and enthusiasm, tempered now by their long, hard experience and a sense of competence due to all they’ve been through. They recognize their original naivete. They recognize what they’re up against. They gird their loins.

   • Climax:

     The protag tackles their story once again armed with both optimism and realism. They work like they have never worked in their life. They make it happen. They get to the end.

     And there they discover that, much to their shock and dismay. . .they’ve done it all wrong again.

This, my friends, is the story of every writer ever in the history of the human race. Back almost ten thousand years ago, when the Vinča were carving symbols of communication into their belongings, they probably went through it too.

“Damn! Got all the way through carving my initials indelibly into the only bowl I own. . .and I did it wrong.”

I’ve written over a dozen full-length fictional works at this point in my life—and you clients know how demanding I am—plus lots of short stories and poetry, some of it even published, a nonfiction book published by Prentice Hall, two (and a half) nonfiction books on writing published by La Favorita Press, and about a zillion pieces of journalism and other nonfiction. I’ve got three blogs and a newsletter column, hundreds of blog posts, thousands of nearly-endless letters. (Back in the old days before email, my friends and I carried on enormous correspondences).

And I still reach that point of horrifying epiphany at the Climax of each piece of writing, regular as clockwork, that I’ve managed to do it all wrong.

In fact, back when I was a typesetter I once typeset the entire list of street names for the city of Bellingham, Washington (about 50,000 souls in those days, and let me tell you those numbered streets were a drag). It took me weeks, and the instant I typed the last street name the power on our entire city block went out. This was before PCs, so I was working on an old CompuGraphic IV typesetting machine. Lost the whole thing. Had to start all over from scratch.

Do you know why sighing was invented?

So writers would keep breathing.