Today’s guest post is excerpted from The Story Book by Amy Jones.

One of the most blatant acts of self-mythologising comes from the cultivated idea of the inherently “gifted” writer: one who simply picks up a pen and in isolation writes a masterpiece, like a swan gliding over the water, effortlessly graceful, with no hint of strenuous effort. Truman Capote (In Cold Blood, Breakfast at Tiffany’s) is perhaps the most notorious peddler of this myth, coolly claiming to have taught himself the craft by age ten. Do not be fooled! Writers are storytellers, and they can’t always be trusted to tell the truth of their own tales. Underneath those graceful swans are legs paddling like mad to stay afloat. Witnessing truly great storytelling—those masterpieces of page and screen—is akin to watching a virtuoso playing a concert, or an athlete winning a gold medal. We see only the final product, not the hours of training and practice, the crises of confidence, the falls, and the failures, which are all a necessary part of the journey.

Of course there is such a thing as a talent for storytelling. Just as an Olympic gymnast may have been born a little more flexible than their peers, a storyteller may be born with creative flair, a unique way of interpreting and portraying the world. But if that precocious child does not train, and turns up at an elite competition, the consequences will likely be rather painful for all concerned. If that storyteller does not cultivate their talent with hard work, we see much the same result.

So, how do writers train? Where do you begin? What Capote, Charles Bukowski, Ernest Hemingway, and William Faulkner (all firm disavowers of studying the craft of writing), have in common is that they were voracious readers. Stephen King, in his excellent On Writing, cautions us that: If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that. Faulkner’s advice when interviewed in 1956 for the Paris Review was:

Read, read, read. Read everything—trash, classics, good and bad—and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master.

Be warned though, reading is not for the process of imitation—at the end of that road lies derivative work. Observation is the aim. Rather like people-watching and admiring a particular pair of boots, the colour of hat, the cut of a coat, we might seek out a similar item for ourselves. It may suit you; it may not. Try it on.

By observing writers, good and bad, and asking “What works and what doesn’t? What do I like about this? What’s new here?”, we can build up an idea of some essential tenets of what we feel is good writing. It is likely that you will come to many of the same conclusions that others have before you, and these conclusions might broadly be considered the “rules” or “laws” of writing. You will find critically recognised and long-used tools of the writer’s trade which help to explain and implement those rules. Try them out for size, see which suits your style, and absorb the theory—even if you disagree. Artistic revolution is often built on deep respect for tradition, not ignorance of it. Look at Picasso’s early works. They demonstrate a command of realism and deep understanding of classical composition.

Your readers and audiences will have a fair idea of these rules too. To an extent, they’re expecting you to stick to them, but true delight lies in the unexpected twist or manipulation of those expectations—sometimes playfully, sometimes experimentally, sometimes seriously. This is what makes the difference between human creativity and machine-generated content. Even Capote (rather contrarily) advises that:

Writing has laws of perspective, of light and shade, just as painting does, or music. If you are born knowing them, fine. If not, learn them. Then rearrange the rules to suit yourself.

Truman Capote, Paris Review Interview, 1957

Writing, like anything else that one wants to excel in, requires study and dedication. Practice, practice, practice!—our third principle. Expect failed attempts. Anticipate them. Learn from them. Writing can feel Sisyphean at times, but unlike poor Sisyphus, success does await the patient and persistent writer.

You become a writer by writing. There is no other way. So do it. Do it more. Do it again. Do it better. Fail. Fail better.

Margaret Atwood, Masterclass, 2018

At times, practice means silencing your inner critic and simply getting words on the page, knowing you can return later to shape them. Practice material won’t always make it into the finished product, but sits beneath it, like the swan’s paddling feet, and is just as essential to the process. At other times, it means meticulous editing, or committing daily time to flex your writing muscles.