I've been thinking a lot about writing, lately. That in itself is not unusual. Writing is my job, after all, and the day you stop thinking about your job is the day you should find another one. As part of my job, I'm constantly assessing the broad aspects of my craft--style, characterization, plotting, etc--plus looking at specific areas I need to work on, such as introducing romantic sub-plots or finding another synonym for "gestured". I used to think writing was a natural process, almost easy, but as editor of Locus Charles Brown likes to say, writing is one of those jobs that gets harder the longer you do it. The more I learn the more I question what I know, until some days it seems like I don't know anything at all, and my entire career is just an illusion that my editors are bound to see through any day now, at which point the whole thing will come crashing down.

Insecurity is rife at all levels of this game, obviously. Which is stupid, really, in my case, because I do know stuff about writing. I know quite a lot, actually, accrued from experience and by listening to my colleagues for over sixteen years. While a lot is hard to quantify, consisting of subconscious hunches or instincts that may relate only to me and my circumstances, some of it must surely be of value to other writers. Sharing information, in the form of advice, is exactly why websites such as this one exist. I wish they'd been around when I'd started.

I'm often asked for advice for new writers. In answering, I always try to think back to my own early days when I didn't know much and, in fact, didn't know what I needed to know, so I was just stumbling about making mistakes (an excellent way to learn, as it happens, if you don’t mind working hard). My memory is hazy, though, so I labour at such questions under the fear that my advice isn't going to be terribly helpful, because I've either forgotten what it was like to be in that position, or my answers are neither inclusive nor consistent. Also because I'm usually being asked in the context of an interview or an email exchange in which an exhaustive reply is neither expected nor wanted. Save it, I tell myself, for a forum like this.

So, lately I've been thinking about the first principles of writing. "First principles" as in the assumptions or rules that underpin a mathematical theorem, say, and cannot be reduced further. What are the fewest number of answers I could give to such a question, which would apply to everyone? Is it even possible to reduce something as intuitive and individual as writing to a series of mechanical steps?

Well, the answer, I think, is yes and no. I think it is definitely possible to devise a list of critical points that every writer must address at some point in their career (so why not earlier rather than later?). I don't, however, believe that they can be addressed mechanically. Every step needs to be faced and dealt with in a unique way--unique to each writer, I mean, because we'll all find methods that work for us and no one else. They're goals, if you like, or challenges. And they never go away.

My list contains ten points, with an optional eleventh. I stopped at that number not because it's nice and round (if you don't take the option on eleven) but because I couldn't think of another thing that didn't need to be explained or qualified. I was looking for universals, after all. Every time I wanted to include a qualification, the urge to slash and hack rose up like a red mist.

For instance, writers are often advised to join a workshop or find a mentor. I think that can be good advice. Can be; isn’t always. For everyone who has had a good experience with critiquing or a mentor, there's someone else who managed well enough without, and another person whose writing was actually damaged by it (I include myself in the latter category). So out went that item.

Before I give you the list, I want to say that I strongly believe that there are no rules when it comes to writing, just lots of opinions. Whatever works for you, go for it. But I do think that if you peel back what works, as I have done, you'll see these first principles lurking. And I also believe that anyone who applies these principles to their writing is guaranteed to improve. I simply cannot imagine how they could do anyone harm, in the long-run.

So, the First Principles of Writing, as distilled by me from sixteen years of experience (and which I hope not to find hopelessly naïve in another sixteen) are:

1. Read a lot.
2. Write a lot.
3. Write what you love but be aware of the market.
4. Define your version of success and take concrete steps towards achieving it.
5. Be professional at all stages of your career.
6. Listen to everyone.
7. Be visible.
8. Challenge yourself, always.
9. Never believe you've figured it out, because everything changes.
10. Work hard.

That's it. Stating the obvious, you might think, but sometimes the obvious needs to be stated. Or stuck on the fridge as a constant reminder of everything we need to do to be happy and fulfilled as writers. I've forgotten a couple down the years (1 and 7 in particular, and 9 is always at risk) so don't think it's a matter of ticking the box and moving on. The numbers on this list don't mean anything. Each point applies all the time, in any order, over and over. And there are, of course, footnotes. To whit:

Point 1 applies to work outside your field of choice as well as that inside. It may seem counter-intuitive that, if you want to write romance blockbusters, you should read Dickens, but it's true. You should, in fact, read both. Point 3 says, in this particular hypothetical, that you're already reading romance blockbusters--otherwise why would you want to write them? A writer seeks input from all sources, and that includes books you wouldn't normally read. Challenge your tastes, and learn from the experience. You're likely to be pleasantly surprised.

Points 3 and 4 particularly relate to someone who wants to write for a living, but I think they're still of general importance. Point 5 relates all the time. The SFWA lists several desirable attributes in its Code of Professional Conduct, respect for intellectual property, willingness to honour commitments, and presentation of self and field in the best possible light among them. They sound pretty sensible to me. For those who do want to be full-time writers, cultivating a working mindset as soon as possible is a good idea. That doesn't mean only making time to write. Create an office, buy a fax machine, invest in business software, buy business cards, and so on. I think that's good advice, if only because thinking like a business-person is something that has to be learned just like any other skill, and it's not always an easy skill for an artist to pick up. It's taken me years to work out how to keep receipts and manage my own books.

The hardest thing, arguably, is not being published but working out what kind of writer you could be (there's likely to be several different answers to that question) then seeing whereabouts in the market you could fit. The last part is difficult, as the market is always changing, but you can't ignore the question or you could end up consistently barking up the wrong tree. Or a whole forest of wrong trees, until you stumble across a right one by chance--and who wants to leave something as important as this to chance?

The flipside of point 4 is the awareness of what constitutes failure as well as success. When I started writing seriously, I gave myself ten years to have a book published. If I didn't make that deadline, I swore that I would give up and try something else. That gave me a sort of anti-deadline--something to strive against rather than for. The fear of not meeting my goal was a powerful motivator, and added up to something much more powerful than all the little fears (of rejection, of completion, of public speaking etc) that every writer has to conquer.

Point 10 is possibly the ultimate universal guideline. How can we expect to get anywhere if we don't put in the hours? Recent studies reported in New Scientist and Scientific American demonstrate over and over again that what separates stand-out athletes and thinkers (not always mutually exclusive) from the rest of us isn't innate ability or genius. It's single-minded, persistent slog, with challenges constantly imposed from within and without. The ten-year rule (so neatly summed up in the Japanese saying, "Even a thief takes ten years to learn her trade") applies, as does the advice I received in my early days as a writer: to be a good writer, write one million words, after which you're bound to have improved. Both worked for me. One million words into my career, I had just sold my first novels to the US. After twelve years, I was a New York Times bestseller.

There are no guarantees, ever. But I do genuinely believe that if people are doing all or most of the things on this list then they're substantially increasing the likelihood that they'll achieve the goals they set out for themselves. And that can only be a good thing.

So, what was #11? The one thing my Ten First Principles doesn’t explicitly mention is the notion of community, which I think is very important. I left it off since being visible and listening to people assumes that you're interacting with someone. But a few of my colleagues thought it was worth including. One suggested that I advise new writers to "refuel as necessary by spending time with positive people who love the same things you do." Another to "find a community of like-minded writers, or help to create one, with which you can exchange ideas, fellowship and practical advice." I'd phrase it like this: "Remember that you are neither alone among nor in competition with your fellow writers." Ultimately, the message is the same. The community of writers surrounding us is like a family, with all the pros and cons attendant to a real family. Take the pros; avoid the cons; and pass on what you've learned to the next generation. 

And that's it, my "First Principles of Writing", aka "The 10½ Commandments". You'd think or hope that I'd have nothing left to say after this, but you'd be wrong. Writing is an endlessly complicated, eternally fascinating exercise, and the devil is, as always, in the details. These ten-and-a-bit points offer us only the vaguest of directions. Wonderful lands await each of us. I look forward to receiving a postcard or two, celebrating your journeys.

Sean Williams is a multiple winner of Australia's speculative fiction awards, recipient of the "SA Great" Literature Award and judge of the international Writers of the Future Contest. He is the current Chair of the SA Writers' Centre and an occasional DJ. His 21st novel, The Devoured Earth, was released in September. 

This article evolved out of a conversation started on Sean's Live Journal. Feel free to pop in and take part.