The first time I met Victor Villasenor, a well-known, San Diego author, he asked what I did.

"I’m a writer," I said.

He looked at me for a few seconds. "Are you a writer or do you want to be a writer?"

I repeated, "I’m a writer."

"What’s the difference?" he asked.

"I guess... writing," I said.

He nodded and smiled.

So is it that simple? Not quite, and no one ever said it was— which became apparent as I sat down to write this column— my first as the WritersMonthly.com Writing Coach.

I was excited about the opportunity to inspire and encourage readers, but after thirty minutes of engaging in advanced task-avoidance (answering e-mail, writing e-mail, searching the web), I realized that instead of sharing lovely, yet impractical, words of wisdom, I should focus on the trickiest aspect of writing: starting.

There are days - sometimes even weeks and months - when writing is a wonderful and fulfilling experience: the images are stunning, the dialogue is authentic, and the story lines are perfect.

But what about the days when the words aren’t flowing and the ideas aren’t so profound? What about when you’ve written yourself into a corner and can’t find your way out, when it seems like everything has already been said, or like you have nothing more to say?

It is a daunting task to sit down with the intention to write when you feel that you are without grace and inspiration. But you have to do it anyway because that’s what you do.
The only thing I can tell another writer is that once I developed the habit of sitting down to write every day, I found I always had something to say. Even when I was sure I was empty.

The trick is to get one sentence down and then the next, you may even need to take it one word at a time. Sometimes it doesn’t matter what you’re writing, as long as you are doing it… you can always edit it later. There are times when I can’t wait to finish what I started the day before and times when I’ll do anything to avoid it. But what develops my skill and faith in my ability is doing it anyway.

Starting can be the easiest and the most difficult aspect of writing. Making the commitment to yourself to spend a certain amount of time each day writing (or at least sitting with your fingers poised over the keyboard thinking about it) will allow you to strengthen your writing muscles.

If you have a hard time writing for an hour each day set the goal for thirty minutes and work your way up. You will be surprised by how easy it gets to write a page - or five or ten - a day. The solution could be boiled down to developing discipline, but I think it requires a little more than that.

You need to take risks. Most of the time, writing is an exercise in vulnerability. We need to put ourselves into the work and then put it out there for others to see. It can be raw, open, revealing, and mostly very uncomfortable.

I’ve found that when I’ve hidden somewhere in between the words and the images, the result was always less than stellar. When I keep my vision, hopes, and experiences from my work, the words don’t ring true and I have committed the worst crime, I’ve been inauthentic.

You need to be willing to grow, to learn new ways of expressing yourself, new ways of telling a story, even when you think you know best. You need to be teachable, to admit that maybe you didn’t do it in the most direct and powerful way and that you’re willing to try it again, and again, and if necessary, again.

You need to have enough passion to sustain you through the times that no one, including your adoring mother, wants to read what you have written. Some projects we undertake seem frivolous, some deserve to be abandoned, some require years of dedication, and sometimes we just might wonder, what the hell are we doing? Will it be read by anyone? Will it be published? And does it really matter?

You have to care enough to do it anyway.

You also need courage to write through the down times. There are times when you may think you’ve never written a good sentence in your life, that your focus is myopic, your characters wooden, your dialogue awkward, and your descriptions trite.

It’s easy to keep going when you know that you are writing the great American novel, when you’re sure you’ll win the Pulitzer. But not so easy when you’re in your own writing hell. The only thing you can do when you find yourself there is to write yourself out. That is it. You keep going.

And never underestimate the power of reading. I have had incredible shots of (what I like to call) genius, simply by opening myself up to someone else’s.

There is nothing so exhilarating as reading a piece of work that really resonates with you. I have been encouraged by the path other writers have walked and inspired by the things other writers have written. There is something beautiful and challenging about putting a story down and thinking, I wish I wrote that. Because, of course, I can’t. But maybe I can write something just as beautiful or intriguing or funny.

The more you read, the more open you become to the infinite possibilities.

So with this debut column, I say, here’s to becoming a great writer, to experiencing the bliss of a well-turned phrase, and to sticking to it no matter what.