There is a specific kind of bad writing advice that spreads like a virus through writing communities. The kind that feels good—comforting, even—because it reassures struggling writers that they don’t need to do the hard stuff. That writing is art, art is expression, and expression should be free and unshackled from rules, expectations, or any consideration for the reader. And sure, fine. If you’re writing only for yourself, by all means, scribble a 400-page novel about a talking cloud that philosophizes about life while floating over medieval France. Just don’t expect anyone to want to read it.
Because here’s the truth: writing is a social act. It’s a craft, a skill, a thing that exists to be read. Even if you only ever write for yourself, the moment you put words on a page, you are engaging with language, structure, and meaning in ways that are inherently for communication. If you’re telling a story, it implies an eventual audience—whether that’s one person or a million. So this idea that writers should just “write for themselves” and never consider the reader is not just bad advice—it’s dishonest. It’s a way to shield writers from the hard truth that if they want their work to be read, understood, and enjoyed, they need to put in the work to make it readable, understandable, and enjoyable.
But let’s get into specifics. Because oh boy, there’s a lot of terrible writing advice out there.
1. “Ignore Craft Books and Just Write” (Aka, The ‘No One Teaches Basketball’ Argument)
This one makes the rounds every few months, always in some slightly different form. The latest version comes from a post about Brandon Sanderson’s writing advice. In it, he compares learning to write to learning basketball—specifically, how nobody asks him if he’s going pro when he practices basketball. The implication? Writing should be fun. Not everything needs to be monetized. Most people should just enjoy the process and not worry about selling books.
Which is a nice sentiment, but also, terrible advice for anyone who actually wants to improve.
Here’s the thing: basketball has rules. You have a ball, a hoop, a court. You score points by throwing the ball into the hoop. Writing has rules too—just ones that people like to pretend don’t exist. But here’s the real kicker: basketball also has structure, coaching, drills, skill-building, and an objective way to measure progress. If you want to get better at basketball, you don’t just run around randomly throwing balls in the air. You practice specific skills. You improve your shooting technique. You learn defensive strategies.
But somehow, when it comes to writing, people want to throw all of that out. They act like it’s just kicking a ball around in a field with no goalposts, no structure, no way to measure success. And then they wonder why their novel isn’t working.
If you write purely for fun with no intention of improvement, that’s fine. But if you actually want to tell a good story—one that resonates, one that people want to read—then ignoring craft entirely is the worst thing you can do.
2. “99% of Writers Shouldn’t Write to Market” (Or: The Lie That Publishing Is Purely Artistic Expression)
This is another piece of advice that sounds like it’s empowering, but is actually deeply misleading. The idea here is that most writers shouldn’t think about the market, shouldn’t worry about what readers want, and should instead “write for themselves.” Again, great if you’re just journaling or writing experimental poetry in a dark room somewhere. Terrible if you actually want to publish.
Because here’s the thing: books exist in a market.
Publishing is an industry. Readers have expectations. Genres have conventions. Storytelling has structures that have existed since ancient times because they work. Ignoring all of this and writing “for yourself” is like opening a restaurant but refusing to cook food people actually want to eat. “I don’t care about taste, I just like making soup.” Okay. Then don’t be surprised when no one comes to your restaurant.
Telling writers not to write to market isn’t actually helping them. It’s setting them up for failure. Because most writers—whether they admit it or not—want to be read. They want their stories to matter to other people. And that means learning what readers enjoy, what makes a book engaging, and yes, what sells.
Writing to market doesn’t mean selling out. It means understanding your audience. It means knowing how to tell a story in a way that people actually want to consume it. And the sooner writers stop pretending that’s a dirty concept, the better their books will be.
3. “Just Get Words on the Page, Nothing Else Matters” (Or: Why ‘Permission to Be Bad’ is a Half-Truth at Best)
This is another classic. The idea that all that matters is writing—not planning, not structure, not thinking about craft, just writing. “Give yourself permission to be bad!” they say. “You can fix it in revision!”
And look, there’s some truth to this. Yes, writing a bad first draft is better than writing nothing at all. Yes, perfectionism is the enemy of progress. But the problem is, people take this advice too far. They assume that because they wrote something, it must be fixable. But not all first drafts can be salvaged. Some of them are a structural mess from the ground up, and no amount of revision can change that.
Because writing isn’t just “getting words on the page.” Writing is telling a story that works. If you don’t understand how stories work—if you don’t know what makes a character compelling, or how to structure a satisfying arc, or why pacing matters—then you’re not just writing a “bad first draft.” You’re setting yourself up for endless frustration, trying to fix something that wasn’t built correctly in the first place.
So yes, give yourself permission to be messy. But don’t give yourself permission to be willfully ignorant.
4. “Ignore All Writing Advice and Just Write Your Truth” (Or: The ‘I’m Special’ Fallacy)
This is the absolute worst piece of writing advice out there. The idea that writing is purely individual expression, that rules and best practices don’t matter, and that any criticism of your work is just people “not understanding your vision.” It’s the literary equivalent of walking onto a basketball court with no experience and insisting you don’t need to learn how to dribble because you have raw talent.
Writing is a craft. That means it can be taught, learned, and improved. The greats—Hemingway, Morrison, King, Atwood—didn’t just magically know how to write. They studied. They read. They learned the rules before they broke them.
The idea that you can just “write your truth” with no regard for craft is why so many writers spend years banging their heads against manuscripts that never quite work. Storytelling has principles. Language has rhythm. Fiction has conventions that exist for a reason. Pretending otherwise doesn’t make you an artist—it just makes you willfully ignorant.
The Truth About Writing Well (And Why It’s Harder Than People Want It To Be)
Good writing is both art and skill. It requires both creativity and craft. It is not just about personal expression, nor is it just about following a formula. It’s about finding the balance between what you want to say and what the reader needs to experience in order to connect with it.
If you want to write purely for yourself, go ahead. But if you want to write something good—something that resonates, that has meaning beyond your own personal enjoyment—you’re going to have to learn how storytelling works.
Which means ignoring the feel-good nonsense advice that tells you that craft doesn’t matter, that the market doesn’t matter, and that all you need to do is “just write.” Because that’s not how you get better. That’s how you stay stuck.
And if you’re okay with that? Fine.
But don’t say no one warned you.
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