Becoming a Writer

Becoming a Writer is a nonfiction guide to the creative process by Dorothea Brande, a fiction writer, editor, and critic. Rather than offering instruction in storytelling techniques, Brande addresses what she considers the deeper, prior problem: the psychological and temperamental obstacles that prevent aspiring writers from producing work at all. She positions her book as a preliminary to craft handbooks, aimed at teaching the beginner how to be a writer rather than how to write. She argues that a teachable "writer's magic" exists, and that her book will reveal it.

Brande opens by recounting her long apprenticeship: reading every available book on fiction technique, attending classes led by instructors of different schools, living in a literary colony, and conferring with practicing writers. All of it left her disappointed. Only when she began teaching a fiction writing class herself did she identify the true source of her discontent: The average student's difficulties begin long before technical instruction can help. Aspiring writers seek initiatory knowledge from teachers and books but are almost always rebuffed by the blunt declaration that "genius cannot be taught." Brande insists this is misleading and that her book will explain what can be taught.

She identifies four common, nontechnical difficulties. The first is the inability to write at all, a blockage that may stem from youth, self-consciousness, or waiting for divine inspiration. The second is the "one-book author" who achieves early success but cannot repeat it. The third is the occasional writer who produces excellent work at painfully long intervals. The fourth is the inability to carry a vividly apprehended story to a successful conclusion. Even in this last case, Brande insists the real trouble lies in the writer's personality rather than in deficient craft.

Brande then introduces her central framework: the writer as a dual personality. One side is the unconscious, artistic self, which retains a childlike freshness of response, what painters call an "innocence of eye" that sees situations as if newly minted. The other is the conscious, critical self, the adult artisan who controls, combines, and discriminates. Both must work in harmony; if either dominates, the result is bad work or no work. She describes the "slough of despond" through which every aspiring writer passes: paralyzing self-doubt, unfavorable comparisons with established authors, and the temptation to quit. The remedy is to consider oneself as two persons who must first be trained independently and then brought into cooperation.

The practical self erects a barrier between the writer and a world that tends to mock artistic ambition. Brande warns against talking about story ideas before writing them, since the unconscious, having reaped its reward through verbal storytelling, will consider the story already told. During actual writing, the critical faculty must stand aside; the tormenting doubts that paralyze creativity come from consulting the inner judge when the storyteller should lead. Before prescribing her exercises, Brande counsels the reader to approach habit change through imagination rather than clenched willpower, arguing that relaxed engagement produces better results than brute determination.

The first major exercise is early morning writing. The writer rises half an hour to a full hour earlier than usual and, before speaking or reading, writes whatever comes to mind: dreams, yesterday's events, imaginary conversations. The writing must be rapid, uncritical, and free of concern about quality. Its purpose is to train the unconscious, in the twilight zone between sleep and waking, to flow into the act of writing. The second major exercise is writing on schedule. Each morning, the writer selects a specific 15-minute window, choosing a different hour each day. At the appointed moment, the writer must begin regardless of circumstances. Brande warns that inner resistance will intensify at this stage, and issues her most solemn caution: If the writer fails repeatedly, the resistance exceeds the desire to write.

Once both habits are established, the writer rereads the accumulated pages as if they were a stranger's work. The prohibition on reading before morning writing was designed to prevent unconscious imitation. The repetitions and habitual forms in the pages reveal the writer's native gift: Those who recast experience into anecdotes and sharp dialogue are likely short story writers; those who engage in subtler character analysis are likely novelists; those given to musing introspection are likely essayists. The critical self then conducts a thorough examination, identifying specific strengths and weaknesses and pairing each with a concrete remedy, such as targeted reading of authors whose strengths complement one's own deficiencies.

Brande devotes subsequent chapters to reading as a writer, productive imitation of technical excellences, and overcoming habitual dullness of perception. She prescribes daily exercises in recapturing childlike alertness and identifies honesty and self-knowledge as the true source of originality, demonstrating through a classroom exercise that 12 students given the same "trite" synopsis produce 12 entirely different stories. She advises writers to choose wordless recreation, noting that rhythmical, monotonous activities such as walking, knitting, or attending symphonies allow the unconscious to work undisturbed.

The culminating exercise combines both selves in a complete practice story. The writer selects a simple idea from the morning pages, spends a day or two immersing in its details, sets a date to write, and then dismisses the story from mind. When the moment arrives, the writer begins immediately, writing rapidly. After resting for at least one night, the writer discovers that the unconscious contributed far more than expected: unplanned scenes, surprising character traits, and aptly placed emphasis.

This discovery leads to what Brande calls the "great discovery." She reframes the writer's nature as not dual but triple: Alongside the conscious and unconscious sits a third partner, one's individual endowment of genius. She concedes that genius cannot be literally augmented but argues it can be liberated. Successful writers typically release this faculty through idiosyncratic activities that share a common trait: They are rhythmical, monotonous, and wordless, inducing a light hypnotic state. But such accidentally discovered methods are often arbitrary and prone to hardening into superstitions.

Brande's promised "writer's magic" is the method of stilling the mind. Just as one holds the body still to think, one must quiet the mind to activate genius. She prescribes graduated exercises in mental stillness, beginning with a few seconds of closed-eye concentration and extending gradually. When the writer achieves even partial stillness, the next step is to hold a story idea in mind and let the quiet gather around it. In the full method, the writer outlines a story, takes it out for a lazy walk, then lies down in a dim room, making body and mind quiet. After 20 minutes to two hours, a surge of energy arises: the impulse to write. The writer obeys at once, entering a dreamlike yet focused state in which the imagination is vividly alive. This, Brande declares, is the state in which an artist works.

She closes with practical advice on the material conditions of writing, including composing on the typewriter, experimenting with different writing tools, and studying fiction markets. The writer who has followed her program, Brande concludes, has become a flexible instrument for the use of one's own genius and is at last ready to benefit from technical instruction.