Everybody said that to be a writer, first I must be a reader. And so I took much pride in the growing array of books representing all genres on my bookshelf, soon falling in love with fantasy, Harry Potter and Chronicles of Narnia being some of my favorites. However, the polished prose of the novels I read offered little glimpse into the arduous journey taken to write them, and for the longest time I held that the only element of a writer’s process was imagination. Well, I could imagine! Given this romanticized view of the writing process, I acquired blind confidence before I even picked up the pen.

My misconception was corrected upon finally learning that the creative process of a writer isn’t dependent on a genie in a bottle, but the day-to-day labor of heaving words onto a blank processor, crumpling up treasured drafts, mustering the will to stay on the difficult task even though wondering about what’s for dinner is clearly the more appealing option.

The first true story I can remember writing was a short description about riding a rollercoaster in Disney. I was in 3rd grade and felt amazed that all 171,146 English words listed in the Oxford English Dictionary were free for my use and arrangement. The rollercoaster “jerked” and “twisted”. I threw some onomatopoeia in there. No hard deliberation, just flow. The piece received praise from my teacher. So the doors of creative writing were opened!

The summer of 7th grade, I finished my first novel. The hours turned into weeks which alas turned into a finished manuscript. Not a good one, but a milestone. It didn’t get published, which, in hindsight, was a good thing. Looking back, the book was nothing but a bizarre compilation of imagination, strange thoughts slapped together, and a lack of knowledge about how the real world worked.

And, description overload. There was something about description that seemed to trigger a sense of flow in me, something that felt easier than pondering the logic of the plot or the authenticity of my writer’s voice. When my friend aptly pointed out the problem to me, I realized that I was taking the easy route by tiptoeing around the dull plot, weak characters, and lack of structure that screamed at me from the page. There were as many holes in my craft as in a barrel of Swiss cheese, and I was stuffing lavish prose into those holes to fill them. It was the first piece of criticism I remember receiving, and perhaps one of the most important.

I carried this problematic writing style into 8th grade and my first official creative writing course. For my first assignment, I poured my best prose into a descriptive piece, yet my instructor tore it apart in his comments. I was surprised to find that my second to last story was returned to me with the same harsh critique as my first. From the course, I gained a pile of useful but illusion-shattering feedback and more skills for my writers’ toolkit, and I lost the innocent freedom that I once had while writing. For the first time, writing began to feel a chore. Between the moment I pick up the pen to the instant it touches paper there was a stack of things to consider: is my piece planned appropriately? Do I have enough narrative drive? An emotional center? The magic genie in a bottle was gone now, if it ever existed.

I kept listening to writing podcasts and talking to fellow fiction writers, though my creative channels had thinned drastically with the beginning of high school. But I finally realized that while I am taking great pains to malleate a story, that story is also shaping me. The hours of dedication day after day when I shaped my novel while listening to “Classical Music for When You’re On a Deadline,” rounding up thoughts like scattered sheep and forcing them to cohere, amounted to something more than just a decent story. They built character, boosted my creative thinking, and most importantly, made me realize that pursuing something I loved demanded sacrifices.

One of my teachers used to describe the state of writing as “running free with a pen”. I’d come to see it as a romanticized image, but in a way, it still rings true. Yes, writing requires a lot more discipline and regular dedication than I initially thought it did. Yes, there are certain “commandments” such as narrative drive or character arcs that a writer must cling to, and sometimes they are challenging to adhere to. But these same commandments of writing can also be freeing if I keep in mind that the result is something that will catch eyes and touch hearts. (Now here is a dilemma worth writing about!)

German philosopher Immanuel Kant believed that obeying moral law doesn’t confine one’s will, but rather one acts out of respect for the law. Similarly, there is much freedom and joy to be found in the difficult task of adhering to the laws of writing when the reward is a great story. While there are certain rules that dictate the rhyme and rhythm of a good tale, the continuous strive of abiding by them builds patience, brings about self discovery, and boosts confidence. Perhaps this is why when I feel like a story is a lump of clay I must malleate, I am also the one on the pottery wheel being shaped and trained by the process.

But where did the flow go? It is still here, if I’m lucky. If I got a good sleep the previous night, if Jupiter lines up correctly against the zodiac, if the angle of the sun hits the blank page of my word processor just right. If I hunt for it in earnest. I suppose that’s just part of learning to approach the story on its own terms, letting it craft and impress upon me the lessons I have to learn.