like i want to say something super deep and inspirational here, but seriously. spite is the only way out. sheer, unwavering, feel-it-in-your-bones rage.
when you’ve had the absolute core of who you are ripped out of you by circumstance, there’s no taking the high road. there’s no greater understanding or wisdom i can offer. be sixteen years old again, and when your parents tell you not to go out, sneak out anyway. be six, and when your mom tells you not to touch stuff in the store, go around touching everything. be a toddler and scream when you don’t get what you want. creativity is not a practice of the higher mind. it’s a practice of play, and to reach it, you need to let yourself be young again.
when it comes to writing, you have to be selfish. be greedy. be the absolute worst version of yourself, the one that wants and wants and takes and takes. be a narcissist. be an egoist. be a hedonist. humility, rationality, moderation – it’s all a farce. you can’t be creative and still conform to expectations. you have to choose. and once you’ve chosen, all that stuff, money and life, it’s all in the background. it’s stuff that needs done, it’s an obligation to make sure you eat and keep a roof over your head, but everything else, every other second of the day, you can be creative. you can choose that life for yourself, and you never have to look back.
so, writing is not for other people. it’s for you. it’s yours. it’s the shiny expensive toy on the shelf, and you might not be able to afford it, so that means you have to steal it.
you know what actually pisses me off? when I finally start to feel a smidge of confidence in my writing ability and then some JERK POSTS A SINGLE LINE FROM A TERRY PRATCHETT NOVEL AND IT’S BETTER THAN ANYTHING I WILL EVER WRITE NO MATTER HOW MANY MILLENNIA I SPEND TRYING!
Terry was a professional writer from the age of 17. He worked as a journalist which meant that he had to learn to research, write and edit his own work very quickly or else he’d lose his job.
He was 23 when his first novel was published. After six years of writing professionally every single day. The Carpet People was a lovely novel, from a lovely writer, but almost all of Terry’s iconic truth bomb lines come from Discworld.
The Colour of Magic, the first ever Discworld novel was published in 1983. Terry was 35 years old. He had been writing professionally for 18 years. His career was old enough to vote, get married and drink. We now know that at 35 he was, tragically, over half way through his life. And do you know what us devoted, adoring Discworld fans say about The Colour of Magic? “Don’t start with Colour of Magic.”
It is the only reading order rule we ever give people. Because it’s not that great. Don’t get me wrong, very good book, although I’ll be honest I’ve never been able to finish it, but it’s nowhere near his later stuff. Compare it to Guards Guards, The Fifth Elephant, the utterly iconic Nightwatch and it pales in comparison because even after nearly 20 years of writing, half a lifetime of loving books and storytelling Terry was still learning.
He was a man with a wonderful natural talent, yes. But more importantly he worked and worked and worked to be a better writer. He was writing up until days before he died. He spent 49 years learning and growing as a writer, taking so much joy in storytelling that not even Alzheimer’s could steal it from him. He wouldn’t want that joy stolen from you too.
Terry was a wonderful, kind, compassionate, genius of a writer. And all of this was in spite of many many people telling him he wasn’t good enough. At the age of five his headmaster told him that he would never amount to anything. He died a knight of the realm and one of the most beloved writers ever to have lived in a country with a vast and rich literary tradition. He wouldn’t let anyone tell him that he wasn’t good enough. And he wouldn’t want you to think you aren’t good enough. He especially wouldn’t want to be the reason why you think you aren’t good enough.
Here for the underdogs 