To start, let’s be clear, we’re not talking about writing as interpersonal combat, but rather making a comparison between a typical experience in learning Karate or Taekwondo and mastering the art of storytelling.

Why? Well, in the months since we’ve undertaken the mission of helping writers to perform their craft more effectively, I’ve been asked several times, and in several ways, about “the Secret.” After all, there must be a secret to being published, something that is not in the books, not related to story structure and practice— something those people who are making money with their words must know (and presumably are keeping conspiratorially silent about).

In this context, they’re not asking me about narrative tricks, or the way “secrets” can refer to methods of plot and character development. No, they appear to believe their writing is top of the mark, and they just need the unrevealed password to the special door, the ingroup handshake, or something else I can’t fathom.

My protestations that “there is no Secret, no special modus operandi with magical, publishing potency” have not been convincing for some. If you believe you’re as good as many established writers and you’re simply (and unfairly) not being permitted entrance to the “club” there’s not much I can say that might sound convincing.

But, we’ll give it a try.

A part of the problem starts with self-delusion. That’s not a flaw of writers; it’s just a truly human thing we are all subject to. In any activity where you practice alone and attempt to develop solely on your own, there is the very real possibility that you will fail to recognize the objective state of your own progress.

For example, it’s perfectly possible to study Taekwondo in your basement while watching videos; there are some great resources online for that. While possible, it is highly unlikely that an individual who has studied Taekwondo in this isolated, self-critiquing manner will ever walk into a dojang and outperform the students, let alone successfully spar with a black belt.

Competition, in the context of a community of practitioners, has a way of bringing reality into sharp focus. You can’t just imagine that your reflexes are sharper than average, or that your endurance outmatches that of your sparring partner. On the mat, your state of training and skill compared to those in the community of the dojang, is immediately and objectively apparent. Your dojang community itself has an objective level of training and proficiency when compared to other dojangs too.

It's real-life training that informs you that there really is no secret kick against which no defense can be mounted. Nor is “how can I become a black belt before spring break?” a valid inquiry for a beginner.

For most practitioners of martial arts, there is no illusion that they will ever become a super athlete, let alone a world champion, nor do they harbor high hopes of making their living through the refinement of their skills.

Yes, there are highly trained practitioners who earn sponsorships, movie offers, prize money, and the like. Others may become teachers, bodyguards, stuntpersons, open schools, or write books. But if you look at the community of the average dojang, virtually no one is going to come out of their training able to make a living at it, and even the teachers know their efforts are far more about passion than profit.

Yet martial arts communities not only continue but thrive. The students and teachers in them are often happy, energetic, passionate, and achieving more than physical prowess. (I know my own practice in Taekwondo instilled the tenets forever in my soul— Courtesy, Integrity, Perseverance, Self-Control, and Indomitable Spirit.)

In martial arts, looking at those who have achieved a high degree of skill, fame, and wealth through their art and asking “what’s the secret?” would generally come across as rather childish.

From the first day on the mat, it’s obvious that no one gets anywhere without a great deal of effort, sacrifice, and hard, sweaty work. 

Moving on, let’s expand our analogy through some typical dojang experiences.

To participate in the martial arts, you’re going to have to exercise, consistently and to levels that are rather uncomfortable for your initially unconditioned body to endure.

Without exercise, stretching, and conditioning, you’re not going to have the wind to endure more than a few minutes of training and even less time sparring. You won’t be able to kick at the proper height, punch with any impact, or even fall without hurting yourself.

Taking this analogy back to writing, you’re going to have to write. You’re going to have to get used to writing all the time, and in addition to building up endurance for word wrangling, your exercises should be as focused as pushups vs crunches, pullups vs sprints. In other words, you should probably practice character description, world building, opening hooks, background exposition, and the like.

Sure, you can do it as part of a story, but focusing and practicing on a specific thing to improve it is probably a good idea.

After some conditioning on the mat, you’re going to learn patterns and punches, kicks and blocks. In a dojang you’re going to spend a lot of time doing this. Some patterns have more than 30 movements, and you’ll learn them backwards and forwards. A particularly fun instructor might have you perform half of one pattern and half of another, connecting them seamlessly in the middle.

If your goal is still to become a famous and rich Taekwondo practitioner, all this may seem tedious in the extreme. Where’s all the fancy fighting?

Obviously, pushups are not fighting. Jumping jacks are not fighting.  Neither are inside crescent kicks and backfist strikes endlessly performed. Hitting the heavy bag might feel a little like fighting, but mainly your hands and feet are going to get sore.

Part of the martial arts experience is actually engaging with another person, and well, with many people over time. Sparring is kind of a live drilling (not quite a fight, although I have been unlucky enough to have broken bones in sparring), a competition of skill and technique where you actually see how you stack up against your community of practitioners.

All the previous exercise, stretching, and practice prepares you to engage in a high energy activity that otherwise you would be ill-prepared to endure.

The patterns, punches, and kicks are now part of an internalized set of reflexes that you bring to bear far more quickly than your conscious mind can structure into a decision tree. You just act and react, honing your skill in a competitive dance of sorts.

Now you’re doing the “art” part. Just as learning the techniques of writing through rigorous dedication later enables you to go beyond practice and beyond formulas to show your true flair and personality in action.

And there is great value in that. It’s hard to begrudge other people their success when you’ve been there in the room with them to see the work they’ve put in to accomplishing a goal and to see them transcend the basics they’ve worked so hard at. It’s also impossible to harbor the illusion you’re the best in the class when, well…you’re not.

But even so, your own accomplishment still comes with a great deal of pride along with the emotional support and validation of your teachers and classmates. And the feedback of live sparring and your instructor’s critique are never a matter of going into a funk because “I would have done better if they just understood me or given me a chance.”

When you study and perform story writing in self-isolation, there is the very real danger of convincing yourself that your work is better than it is. You may even be good at some things, or only need a nudge on others, but you may never know, nor might you be willing to accept the critique if and when it comes. After all, the only reality you have in the matter is the measure of your own talent that you’ve created in your imagination (which is ironic, certainly).

You need feedback, and you need honest feedback, not just ego stroking praise. Ego boosting is not what you would experience in a dojang, unless you actually accomplished something through personal effort and objectively observable growth.

Unfortunately, most of the feedback many writers experience much of the time is simply silent rejection. Or, at best some brief encouragement or a brief but discouraging critique.

This is why writers workshops are often credited with helping writers get published and why writers who find experienced mentors, even for a short time, often do better than average. There’s really no substitute for engaging in a community that’s working toward a similar goal and having your efforts honed by informed instruction and objective competition.

Being engaged with a group of people who help you see your weaknesses more clearly and encourage you to improve and keep going against the odds has no substitute.

Does this mean no one can teach themselves to write and succeed on their own? Of course not. In every field of endeavor there are naturally skilled standouts who break all the rules the rest of us live by. And, to be sure, the rest of us do live by the limitations of our own median range talents.

I know, for example, I wouldn’t want to attempt even a simple woodworking project without an instructor or the help of an equally clueless buddy to work out some of the fine points. Advancing a new skill entirely on your own is not the best recipe for success.

So, find the buddy, the mentor, the writing group or writing workshop that’s right for you, and experience your own strengths, flaws, and limitations by interaction with others trying for the same goals.

Then you can apply some of the Martial Arts analogues:

• Write in significant amounts consistently – that’s your exercise.
• Learn story parts and structure – these are the defined punches and kicks.
• Put your stories together according to the basic formulas – that’s performing a pattern.
• Join a writers group, club, workshop, or community – now you’re sparring.
• Submit your work to a magazine or anthology – now you’re entering a tournament.

Think about it. Did you start at the tournament level without any of the precursor conditioning and training? No wonder you feel beat up.

Above all, enjoy every step along the way. The honing of skill in the context of community, that’s the thing. You may never sell the million-dollar novel, but you’ll still have a lifetime of belonging, learning, and improving. And you may help the person who does make it big, because you were a sparring partner or a mentor when they needed it.

Can some people steer you in the wrong direction? Certainly, just as there are bad martial arts instructors. But that’s not an excuse for not seeking out help and trying out a number of groups and writing communities before you find your home. And if you can’t find the right community, start one.

You may think all this sounds like playtime for authorial dilettantes. You don’t want to associate with your competitors or bother working with people who can’t get you in front of an agent. You want to make your living solely by writing fiction, not chalk up an anthology or magazine sale once in a while.

We’ll that’s fine. Perhaps you have the talent, dedication, and sufficient competence at self-promotion to make it to the top on your own.

Still, I think for most of us the right community is the place to be. Just as in a dojang, every accomplishment will be sweeter when you have a friendly group to share it with, and those friends and the lessons you shared will hopefully last longer and mean more than any career.

Like all analogies, this one is not perfect. It’s meant only to provoke thought and provide insight along with a bit of perspective. 

Often sensitive, isolated, and uncertain of their progress, beginning to intermediate writers can, I believe, benefit from approaching their desired growth and improvement as if writing itself was a Martial Art.

Can I hear a kihap!