Be Brave, Write with Honesty
Hello, Timmy. Take a seat, get as comfy as you can. Today is a day for sincerity. Also, don’t mind the nagging; that’s Neophyte working on a project of his own in the room downstairs, a very brave endeavor… yes I got a downstairs, no you can´t see it. Anyway, today, we’re having a heart-to-heart, sharing some truths in this age of lies because I’ve reached an uncomfortable conclusion. We’re turning into cowards.
Please don’t be angry; I’m including myself in that statement, which comes after a short yet profound period of self-learning. The number one rule of self-learning is always to be self-critical. Yes, that’s right—one of the many things you don’t learn in any kind of education. It’s the one thing you only discover when you’re on your own, no teacher to fall back on, no mentor to guide you—just yourself and whatever knowledge and experience you’ve gathered until that moment.
Yet, when I set out on my own, tired and disillusioned with higher education, I made several startling discoveries. The first is that, indeed, we are turning into cowards. Mostly because, from the knowledge I was able to gather, a lot was about “how to most effectively and securely do this thing.” There was plenty about ensuring the least amount of risk for the most rewards—a conundrum when it comes to writing. Why, you ask, Timmy? Because the only way to achieve such a thing is to do what has been done before.
That is the way of the Corpos, Timmy—money and safety before anything else. It entails authors lying in their work. That’s why bravery here means writing with honesty, in the way only you can write. It also ensures variety and spice because there’s already a Brandon Sanderson, there’s already an Ernest Hemingway—they already are, while you have yet to be.
This doesn’t mean you can’t, in theory, continue with the style of another. Take the case of Frank Herbert, the creator of Dune, with his son Brian Herbert and Kevin J Anderson continuing his work after his passing. It’s a special case but relevant nonetheless. While it carries the original spirit, it’s not the same. There was a certain aura of mysticism around Frank Herbert’s work that his son’s and Kevin’s don’t quite capture.
Ultimately, it’s about honesty—being honest with yourself as you write and, by extension, with the audience. Only you can write as you would, and the only way to become great is to learn to write as you can. At the start, we all write like other people; that’s the frame of reference we have. Your identity, quirks, weaknesses, and strengths come later, after you’ve accumulated enough failures over your shoulders to confidently say, “I am me.”
Here’s where our modern cowardice kicks in. We’re conditioned to think in narrow and straight ways, making failures and mistakes feel like unrecoverable catastrophes rather than temporary setbacks. As long as there’s a will, you can come back from almost anything. So don’t be afraid, and if you have to err in anything, err on the side of honesty.
If you allow me to hark back to “The Pillars of the Earth” for a moment, Timmy, I finished it a few days ago. The most marvelous thing about it is how the protagonists suffer so much; they carry such heavy weights that it feels like they’re going to drown. There are even moments where it seems the antagonists will win forever. But little by little, the protagonists make a comeback. They don’t let their scars define them permanently; they learn to endure and grow from there. It feels so damn human that I’m a bit jealous—the good kind of jealousy that makes you learn from it.
So please, Timmy, be brave, be honest, be real.
As for why I have Neophyte locked up, don’t bother your head about it. Just go. It’s between him and me.
Until next time.
