WRITING
Best Writing Advice I Received From Non-Writers
Sometimes it has to come from the unlikeliest people and places
I worked in corporate for 20 years where I dealt with a lot of high-pressure problem-solving situations that involved big budgets, major stakeholders, high risks, and a mountain of accountability. I also was surrounded by plenty of masculine energy.
The three main advantages I gained from this environment are: One, I’m fully accustomed to sitting through difficult conversations. Two, seeing through what are petty “problems” as opposed to “crises”. Three, listening to and taking advice from others because your life depends on it to succeed in a collaborative project.
It’s not the same with many women and certain quarters of men where they’re used to a dose of drama, extended emotional meltdowns “to be heard” and unnecessary displays of going around the mulberry bush.
I like, and I’m comfortable, seeing a situation, addressing it, and saying to the other “Look, there is a situation and we ought to discuss it.”
In a world where people often cry about wanting to be heard, desperate to be understood and to be given space to express themselves, it confuses me to this day how many opt and leave when they hear, “We need to discuss…” and later claim to be unaccommodated and left out when the other literally walks off, permanently.
I know this well, I was married to a husband who was avoidant of serious discourse. He could only handle the good times — the times when I’m strong, not when I needed him to take the stand and hold us together.
But that’s not the story for today.
I find it the same with writers.
Many talk about wanting to make it, to be read, to be seen, to be acknowledged, to be adulated, to be put on some kind of pedestal. They channel so much energy into these that they try to formalize and formulate writing to science, forgetting that writing is everything but that.
There needs to be the right time, right place, the right temperature, the right mood, preferably all that comes with low risks. And that’s a key problem.
Many write, “I want to put myself out there but I don’t want to appear raw and vulnerable.”
Many write, “I want to write my novel, short story, poetry but I can’t risk people not liking my stuff.”
Many write, “I want to write about life, relationships, and what moves the earth” but hardly move out from their apartment, have their hearts crushed a few times, and end up ranting how love sucks, men are assholes, women are heartless, and life is unfair.
Many write, “I want to inspire” only to deliberate on the worst things in life because those things are “what’s real about life.”
Many write, “I want to share my ideas with the world” only to rehash other people’s ideas and hope to make a buck or two from counterfeit brainstorming.
Many write, “I can’t write because I’m not in a café.”
On that part, the best place to write is when you’re taking a dump on the toilet bowl, to be honest. It is what it is. Nothing fancy. Pure ideation comes when you’re in the throes of powerful release. Amen.
The best advice I got for writing came from three men who are not writers. I see them as my mentors in life and a whole lot more cognitively centered than Jordan Peterson and his 12 steps to an organized life.
Firstly, as a house rule, one needs to remember that good writing only comes from an environment of high risks.
Advice number one came from an architect from Italy. I met him on several occasions to discuss building restoration. He was conducting a workshop with a classroom full of architecture undergrads when we encountered a storm and we lost electricity.
The architect was unfazed but he gradually grew annoyed seeing the students stopping their work. No one was sketching buildings anymore. They just sat there like lumps of potatoes looking lost and waiting for the torrential rain to stop.
The architect spoke, “It is only rain, why are you not drawing?”
The more brave students replied, “We don’t have the internet”.
The architect transformed into a werewolf before our eyes and howled, “This is architecture, do you think there was the internet 500 years ago? How the hell do you think the greatest buildings are made?”
He then turned to me but seeing I had a gun with silver bullets, calmed down and said, “This dependency on technology and needing to be comfortable is what’s spoiling modern art from architecture to writing. There isn’t the best time for the best ideas just as there isn’t the need for comfort if you want to induce the best ideas to spill forth from the depths of your gut and soul”.
The architect — an occasional poet from the way he talks — turned to the students and said, from now onwards, everyone is forbidden to use your software or gadgets to do my assignment. You are to use only a pencil and sketchbook, as per tradition.”
I wasn’t an architect, and still isn’t, but up to this day, I write notes in a sketchbook, never in a notebook. Sometimes, I write in a graph book. There is something about lines in a notebook that makes me feel imprisoned. A graph book just looks fun.
Advice number two came from a chief executive cum painter who conducted corporate leadership training.
Advice two was “Say YES to opportunities to see what unfolds.”
He said that to me when I sought his advice on whether or not to accept a position I was offered from a company in a totally different industry. I was excited yet nervous. I was confident I could do the job yet I was worried I would struggle to learn new things after being saturated in a company culture for so long.
He said to me like a loving father figure, “Change will be uncomfortable. That is how you know you’re evolving, learning, and pivoting. If you’re still at the top of your game it means you’re not being challenged. It’s still the same level. You move up the level. Embrace the mess it brings.”
He also asked me to ponder for a week what exactly was my greatest fear.
I realized I was most worried about going to a new place and being seen as someone new “struggling” to adapt at my age. I didn’t want to look helpless. I come from an existing arena where I was already a known gladiator. People respected me because I was already good at my game and because I had earned my way up the ranks.
Mentor said, “Remove ego, even your field to be easy on yourself. Also remember, you’re not at the entry-level. You’re entering as Chief Operating Officer. True, not many people will understand your struggle as COO but people will already respect the fact it wasn’t easy to get to that point.”
Applying it to writing, he said, “Don’t think like you’re new to writing. You’re not coming from elementary. You’ve been writing for many years. You’ve published, taught writing, and you’re still writing. You’re upping your game from a foundation you’ve earned for yourself. This is now about gaining and creating new material and seeking new grounds for research. Be kind to your evolving thoughts and it’s okay to think you’re starting all over again if it’s opening new horizons.”
The third piece of advice came from a former superior, a chief executive in design thinking. He taught me the value of reflection, constant check-ins, and pushing through the hard times without a safety net.
We were often at loggerheads, especially when it came to creatives. Sometimes, it gets heated to the point I would step out of the office.
But it was undeniable we had a lot of ideas and each time they clashed, we had more things to say.
Once, on a trip to Paris flying in Business Class with an internet connection, we were on WhatsApp communicating throughout my flight, despite the time zones, and I only stopped for a 2-hour nap. Total record 19 hours in communication. Like me, he barely sleeps.
We were brainstorming ideas and he kept asking questions, throwing situations at me, and occasionally irritating me.
After a quarrel, even if it was past midnight, he would contact to ask two important questions: “Are you okay? Are we good?”
When I said I was, he would proceed with, “Okay what went wrong there? How can we fix this?”
And after we were sorted, he would say, “Okay, write all that you’ve reflected upon in a report format and send it to me.”
“It’s 2 am.”
“I know.”
The bastard.
A lover of Google Docs, he would attach his comments and how he felt about the argument in detail.
From there we learned a lot about each other and the way we processed our words incorrectly.
The power of having them written was to be able to see what we couldn’t because I was a feeler and he was a thinker. He said, “Only when you write, I can understand how you feel. I’m a doorknob. I’m insensitive. This is how I’m learning about you.”
This method was a game-changer to what I knew about journaling.
When we journal it’s intrapersonal, one-directional.
This method we used made it conversational, reflective and above all, it connected us on levels we needed to not feel further isolated with anger and misunderstanding. We were rooted in problem-solving. From here we developed another house rule: no one walks away. The one who did comes back to the other.
I owe these corporate figures a lot for my writing diversity, and for my emotional maturity as a writer. You’d be surprised how they go hand-in-hand.
You need to remove all safety nets for vulnerability, ego, and complacency if you want to connect with other humans.
Words can only do so much but you also need to take risks to be questioned, to not always need to find the right place or the right time with the right tools, or to be with the right “writing people” for writing stimulation.
Learn to write from uncertainty, discomfort, and in a room depleted of ego. My female friends would say, “You can only get such advice from… men.”
So now you’re getting it from a woman.
