How to be a good writer

TL;DR: just write

It finally happened. After a decade working in digital marketing, panting under the table for whatever scraps of affirmation and ROI the internet would deign to throw my way, I went viral. Specifically, something I wrote went viral.

Which means if this has landed in your email inbox, you may be new here.

Hello! It’s great to have you. But also, fills me with a mild sense of panic.

I’m sure you are lovely. However, you are not my mum or my close friends, who would probably still applaud me if I typed out the alphabet.

Maybe you subscribed because you think I’m funny. Maybe you subscribed because you think I’m a good writer. So what if the thing I write next is neither funny nor good?

And so here we have the central, existential, maybe even lifelong dilemma of being a writer. You have to keep writing.

The mess

I write almost every day because people pay me to do it. This does inspire a degree of self-belief and confidence. And honestly, after years of generalist marketing roles where I had to write more spreadsheet formulas than copy, I still pinch myself that I get to do this for a living.

But two things can happen to your identity as a writer when you do it professionally (especially if, like me, you are a copywriter):

1. You don’t actually get told you're a good writer very often. You might get positive feedback on your work, but it’s kind of a given that you’re a good writer—so people assume you already know (I don’t, please validate me).

2. Because it is less about you and more about the copy/content itself. In creative projects that tend to require a round or two of edits, and input from different stakeholders, this emotional detachment is healthy. But it also makes it very easy to a) overthink literally every single thing you ever write and b) completely lose your own voice in the process.

I’ve written about my own experience with this ad nauseam, but it’s something I see in a lot of my coaching clients too. 

Growing up, they were always told they were good at writing. Because of this, they fell into careers in marketing and communications. They’re excited by the potential of social media and other digital publishing platforms, and have plenty of experience using them for brands. And even though they’re often too shy to admit it, they nurture a small but burning ambition to publish their own writing.

But they don’t. They can’t. They get hung up on the concept of being a “good” writer—at the expense of writing anything at all.

Make it make sense

This is hardly surprising, for a number of reasons:

1. It’s human nature to tell ourselves stories that keep us safe. Any act of creation—from painting, to dancing, to acting, to writing—is a vulnerable one. So as “limiting” as they are, the beliefs that drive our thoughts and behaviours are usually just our inner critic’s (or managing/survival parts’) way of protecting us.

2. Society also likes to keep us “safe”, which is why it purports a lot of stereotypes about what it means to be a writer or artist (aloof personalities, anarchic politics, rampant affairs, living in squalor, etc.). 

3. ChatGPT. 

The intersection of our psyches, society and technology whips up a perfect storm of fear, self-doubt and procrastination that’s hellbent on steering us off-course.

And so we find ourselves scrolling through other people’s banal listicles or robot-generated junk, wondering how on earth that fragile but insistent yearning to be a writer fits into all of this.

The work

Once I’d come down from all the pings of sweet, sweet dopamine, I started to read through the replies to my note.

Clearly, the reason it was so popular is because Substack is the home of writers—in other words, the adult selves of all those sensitive/gifted/precocious (I can say it because I was one) children who won a poetry competition aged nine and still haven’t got over it.

As I sifted through brags about people’s actual sex lives (it’s a figure of speech, guys), one reply stopped me:

Thanks

KK Boison

, for asking an intelligent question.

Because for all our agonising, a lot of us who worry about not being a good enough writer don’t stop to think about what “good” even means—or if we do, it’s a false picture (Parisian attics and all). 

Obviously, because art is subjective, defining what constitutes “good” writing will be too—and yes, what is content vs. “art” is an important distinction to make in the era of AI.

However, if we’re talking about humans writing for other humans, outside of a marketing or advertising context, I think the tenets of being a “good” writer are actually quite simple.

First of all, to be a good writer, you just need to write. It doesn’t matter if it’s never seen by another living soul, but you’ll never find your voice or hone your craft if you don’t start.

I think the next barometer for “good” is whether writing makes you feel something. Light, joyful or free. Purged, cleansed or exorcised. In a flow state. Alive.

That’s not to say it will feel easy—at times, it will feel akin to Margaret Qualley pulling a chicken drumstick from her belly button in The Substance. But the end result—whether it’s pride or catharsis—should be worth it. 

If you choose to share your work, I think the second barometer for “good” is whether you make someone else feel something.

Maybe you’re reaching into their guts and holding the deepest, darkest parts of them to the light—in a way that makes them think hey, maybe I’m not that weird, or broken, or ugly after all.

Maybe you’ve offered valuable insight that makes them feel empowered to tackle something that otherwise felt impossible. Maybe (the holy grail) you’ve made them laugh. Maybe you’ve done all three! 

And of course, to make sure it resonates, you also need to make sure your writing can be understood.

The main lesson a lot of writers (myself included) need to learn is how to stop showing off. Reining in some of the pomposity we pick up in education, and opting for some good ol’ plain English and simple syntax instead.

In case you haven’t noticed, I often have trouble doing this.

BUT I’ve also learned to accept that being a tad too discursive and verbose, with a dollop of internet speak on top, is actually just my voice. In the words of Frank Ocean’s mum on the track Be Yourself… 

don’t try to be someone else / be yourself and know that that’s good enough

If you try to be something or someone you’re not, your writing will rarely resonate. At the risk of sounding corny, you’ve really just gotta speak your truth. 

Oh, and don’t try to be ChatGPT or Grammarly either. They strip away a lot of the colloquialisms and idiosyncrasies that make writing human, and therefore authentic, and therefore resonant. 

For example, I initially wrote “Oh, and don’t try and be ChatGPT or Grammarly either”. While this isn’t grammatically correct (and I am, unfortunately, a grammar pedant), it’s probably how I’d speak. Interesting.

The takeaway: everyone can write (yes, you 😉)

All of this may sound like simple advice, but ultimately, writing is quite simple. And I truly believe that anyone can write—because everyone has something important and interesting to say.

When I’m coaching clients to find their voice and get their writing out there, I think they often come to me expecting some kind of secret formula. And yes, there are some practical “tips and tricks” that can help.

But the truth is that storytelling is an innate human quality. We’ve been doing since the beginning of time—not a university degree, whiskey or ChatGPT in sight.

So the work I end up doing with my coaching clients is helping them get out of their own way. By peeling back the layers to uncover some of those less helpful beliefs, and gradually swapping them for new narratives (like I said, we’re good at stories!).

In my case, I really had to learn to take my marketing hat off, and put my human hat on. I won’t pretend that it gets any easier. Every week, I:

• Wonder what in god’s name has possessed me to set myself this often impossible-feeling, fortnightly deadline (weekly publishers, I don’t know how you do it)

• Rip through my notepads in feverish search of inspiration

• Spiral when I see the “K” in other writers’ subscriber counts

The reason writing is hard is because (good) writing is truth.

But what does make it easier are those two barometers: how it makes me feel and how it makes other people feel.

The sense that I’ve got something heavy off my chest, or slotted together the pieces of what I think about something difficult. Then seeing it mean something to someone else—and it only takes one person to make it totally worth it.

Over to you: what do you think makes a good writer?

Now, for the moment of truth: did the above resonate with you?!

As always, I would love to hear your thoughts. Keeping it kind and classy, how do you distinguish between good, bad or (my personal nightmare) distinctly average writing?

Want some Good Writing coaching?

I’m curious to know if there is anyone out there who’d be interested in some writing coaching 👀

As a professional writer and accredited coach, I’ve recently helped a few people work through their writer’s block and finally get their passion projects out there.

Drop me a message or email luciafontaina@gmail.com if you fancy a chat. I currently offer 1:1 sessions, but maybe we could do a group thing if there’s enough appetite?!

---

About me + Messy Work

I’m Lucia, a freelance copywriter, accredited career/creativity/life coach, and enthusiastic Substacker 👋

Messy Work is dedicated to making sense of, moving past and really celebrating the messy work of life. Through personal essays, coaching insights and niche SATC references.

You can subscribe for free to get new posts in your inbox every other Sunday, which I hope will help with any sense of looming dread you feel about the week ahead.

Coaching for recovering high achievers, creatives & independent spirits

I coach all sorts of people on all sorts of things—from launching a Substack, to changing careers, to freelancing, to figuring out who TF they are.

If you’re curious to learn more, you can book a free, 30-minute discovery call here.