How Do Author Monitor His Growth Inyears Writing
Saw a guy on a forum bragging about his 10-year writing journey. Ten years. And he was still asking basic questions about finding an agent. Made me want to throw my laptop out the window. Honestly, if you’re not tracking how you’re evolving, what’s the point of the journey?
I remember spending a good $250 on a fancy online course that promised to ‘supercharge my author career.’ It was filled with generic advice I’d already read a dozen times, and the instructor’s own writing seemed… well, stagnant. That’s when I realized, nobody’s going to track my progress but me.
So, how do author monitor his growth inyears writing? It’s not about tracking word count alone, though that’s a piece of the puzzle. It’s about understanding the deeper shifts, the subtle improvements, and yes, the outright stumbles that shape you into a better storyteller.
The ‘milestones’ Most Writers Ignore
Look, everyone talks about hitting word count goals or publishing X number of books. Those are vanity metrics if you’re not also looking at the qualitative stuff. I once thought that just churning out 2,000 words a day was the path to enlightenment. Turns out, most of those words were garbage, and I was just reinforcing bad habits.
For years, my ‘progress’ was measured by how quickly I could get a first draft done. I thought speed equaled skill. Big mistake. It was like building a house with flimsy foundations; it looked okay from a distance, but a stiff breeze would make the whole thing wobble. The real growth wasn’t in the speed, but in the refinement, the voice, the *craft* that actually lands with a reader.
[IMAGE: Close-up of a writer’s hand holding a well-worn notebook, with scribbled notes and crossed-out passages visible.]
Why I Stopped Reading My Old Work (mostly)
When you’re deep in the trenches of writing, especially if you’re asking yourself how do author monitor his growth inyears writing, it’s tempting to look back at your earliest efforts. I did this for a while. Every six months, I’d pull out that first novella I wrote, the one I thought was my ticket to literary fame. It felt like reading a stranger’s diary, but a stranger who had absolutely no idea what they were doing. Awkward dialogue, plot holes you could drive a truck through, characters flatter than a deflated soufflé.
But here’s the contrarian bit: I stopped doing that. Everyone says you *should* review old work to see how far you’ve come. I disagree. For me, it became a source of crippling self-doubt, not inspiration. Instead of seeing progress, I’d get bogged down in the sheer awfulness of it all and start questioning if I’d improved at all. Now, I only glance at specific passages that I remember struggling with, to see if the *way* I approach those problems has changed, not to wallow in the past. (See Also: Which Is Better Analog Or Digital Monitor )
This isn’t about avoiding reality; it’s about managing my mental state. My writing coach, a woman who’s been in the industry for thirty years and actually knows her stuff – she once told me, ‘Your old work is a tool, not a mirror for your ego.’ Good advice. I prefer looking forward.
The ‘show, Don’t Tell’ Trap and How I Dodged It
Oh, the ubiquitous ‘show, don’t tell’ mantra. You hear it everywhere. For a solid three years, I obsessed over it. I’d take a perfectly good sentence that explained a character’s emotion and try to contort it into a scene with them fidgeting, sighing, or staring out a window. It was exhausting. My prose became bloated, bogged down with unnecessary description that didn’t actually reveal anything deeper about the character or the plot. It was like trying to explain how to tie a knot by describing the texture of the rope and the color of the sky instead of just showing the knot being tied.
My internal monologue during this phase was basically: ‘Show me the character is sad. Okay, they are crying. No, that’s too direct. Make them stare wistfully at a wilting flower. Is that showing enough? Maybe they should also drop their coffee cup?’ It was a nightmare. I’d spend hours on a single paragraph, trying to *show* an emotion that could have been conveyed with a single, well-placed word or a brief, honest internal thought. This is where I realized that sometimes, telling is actually more efficient and more powerful, especially when it comes to internal states or complex motivations that are hard to *show* without becoming melodramatic.
So, how do author monitor his growth inyears writing when basic advice is often misleading? You learn to question it. You experiment. You try the opposite. I started letting myself *tell* again, judiciously, and my writing felt more natural, more fluid, and frankly, more effective. The sensory details became sharper, not because I was forcing them in, but because I wasn’t wasting energy on showing things that didn’t need showing.
[IMAGE: A page from a manuscript with heavy annotations and scribbled notes, showing revisions and crossed-out phrases.]
Tracking Tools: Beyond the Spreadsheet
Spreadsheets are fine. They’re functional. I’ve used them. They give you numbers. But numbers alone don’t tell you if your writing is *better*, just if it’s more. I was tracking word counts, days written, even the number of rejected submissions. That last one was a constant, painful reminder. But it didn’t tell me *why* they were rejected, or if my prose was improving in ways that would eventually overcome those rejections.
What I started doing, after my sixth or seventh manuscript felt like it was treading water, was keeping a ‘Craft Journal.’ It sounds a bit fluffy, I know, but bear with me. Every time I finished a scene or a chapter that I felt genuinely worked, I’d jot down *why*. What made it click? Was it the pacing? The dialogue? The unexpected turn of phrase? Conversely, if a scene fell flat, I’d note that too. What went wrong? Was it too exposition-heavy? Did the character’s motivation feel weak? This became a far more insightful tool than any spreadsheet could ever be. (See Also: How Far Should Rear Ported Monitor Be From Wall )
I remember one specific instance, working on a sci-fi novel. A particular chase scene felt sluggish, like watching paint dry in slow motion. My spreadsheet just said ‘Chapter 14, 1500 words.’ My craft journal noted: ‘Pacing too even, relies on description of ship interiors, needs more immediate threats and sensory details of the environment – the smell of ozone, the screech of metal.’ The difference in those notes is the difference between data and insight.
The ‘voice’ Illusion and How to Find Yours
Ah, ‘find your voice.’ It’s the advice given to every new writer, tossed around like confetti at a wedding. For the longest time, I thought ‘voice’ was some magical, inherent quality you either had or you didn’t. I tried imitating writers I admired, which, predictably, just made my writing sound like a cheap imitation. It was like trying to wear someone else’s ill-fitting suit and expecting it to make you look good. My early attempts at a ‘unique voice’ sounded more like a poorly tuned radio, lots of static and interference.
Then, I realized that ‘voice’ isn’t something you *find*; it’s something you *develop*. It’s the sum total of your experiences, your worldview, your sense of humor (or lack thereof), your vocabulary, your sentence structure, and importantly, your willingness to be honest on the page. It’s built through consistent practice and experimentation, not discovered under a rock. It’s in the way you choose your words, the rhythm of your sentences, the specific details you highlight. A few years ago, I read a report from the National Endowment for the Arts on literary trends, and while it didn’t use the word ‘voice’ directly, it emphasized the growing importance of authentic narrative perspectives, which is really what voice boils down to.
My craft journal became instrumental here too. I’d go back and read passages from different projects, looking for recurring patterns in my language, my humor, or my emotional tone. This isn’t about being static; your voice *should* evolve. But understanding its core components helps you steer that evolution consciously. It’s about recognizing what feels authentic to *you*, even if it’s not what you think a ‘writer’ is supposed to sound like.
What Are the Key Elements of Authorial Voice?
Authorial voice is a blend of your unique perspective, word choices, sentence structure, tone, and rhythm. It’s the distinct personality that shines through your writing, making it recognizable and engaging. Think of it as your literary fingerprint. It develops over time through consistent writing and a willingness to be authentic.
How Often Should I Review My Older Writing?
While reviewing older work can be motivating, it’s more beneficial to do so selectively and with a specific purpose, rather than for general comparison. Focus on passages where you struggled with craft elements like dialogue, pacing, or description. This allows you to see if your *approach* to problem-solving has improved, rather than just getting discouraged by the perceived flaws of past projects.
Is Word Count the Best Measure of Writing Progress?
No, word count is a superficial metric and a poor indicator of actual writing progress. While it’s a component of productivity, it doesn’t reflect improvements in prose quality, storytelling, character development, or thematic depth. Focusing solely on word count can lead to producing more mediocre work rather than better work. (See Also: How Much Larger Is 24 Inch Monitor Than 22in )
How Can I Avoid Sounding Like a Bad Imitation of Another Author?
Authenticity is key. Instead of trying to mimic another writer’s style, focus on developing your own unique perspective and voice. Experiment with different sentence structures, vocabulary, and tones. Pay attention to your own experiences, observations, and sense of humor. Your voice is what makes your writing distinctly yours; trying to force someone else’s will always feel artificial.
[IMAGE: A writer’s desk with multiple notebooks, a laptop displaying a manuscript, and a cup of coffee.]
Judging Progress: A Comparison of Approaches
When it comes to tracking your journey, there are many ways to slice it. Some writers are meticulous, others… less so. I’ve tried to be more systematic over the years, not just for my own sanity, but to actually see if the hours I pour into this endeavor are yielding anything beyond more unfinished drafts.
My approach has evolved. Initially, it was all about output. Then, it became about output plus external validation (rejections, submissions). Now, it’s about a mix of internal craft development and external impact. The internal is where the real growth happens. If I can write a sentence that makes *me* feel something, that’s a win. If I can craft a dialogue that crackles with subtext, that’s another win. These are the seeds. The external stuff—reader feedback, reviews, sales—those are the fruits, and they’re nice, but they’re not the whole harvest.
| Approach | Pros | Cons | My Verdict |
|---|---|---|---|
| Word Count Tracking | Simple, provides quantitative data on output. | Doesn’t measure quality, can encourage quantity over quality. | A baseline, but insufficient on its own. |
| Craft Journaling | Deeply insightful into specific strengths and weaknesses. | Requires discipline and honest self-assessment; not quantitative. | Indispensable for understanding development. |
| Submission/Rejection Log | Tracks external progress and industry engagement. | Can be demoralizing if not balanced with internal progress. | Necessary for career progression, but don’t let it define you. |
| Reader Feedback Analysis | Provides external validation and identifies audience resonance. | Can be subjective, sometimes contradictory, and not always constructive. | Valuable for understanding impact, but filter with your own vision. |
Ultimately, asking yourself how do author monitor his growth inyears writing requires looking at both the mechanics and the magic. The mechanics are the skills you hone, the structures you build, the habits you form. The magic is that indefinable spark that makes your writing connect, resonate, and endure. My craft journal helps me track the mechanics, and keeping an eye on how my *internal* reaction to my own work changes helps me gauge the magic.
Final Thoughts
So, how do author monitor his growth inyears writing? It’s a constant, evolving process, not a one-time setup. You have to be your own harshest, and most encouraging, critic. That craft journal I mentioned? Keep it. Update it. Let it be your honest ledger.
Don’t get caught in the trap of just looking at the numbers. Numbers are easy. They don’t tell you if your sentences sing or if your characters breathe. They just tell you how many words you typed. That’s barely half the story, and often, not even the interesting half.
My honest take? Start by picking one thing you consistently struggle with – dialogue, pacing, description. Dedicate yourself to improving *that one thing* for a set period, say, three months. Then, consciously assess if your *approach* to that specific element has changed, not just if you wrote more pages. That’s real, tangible growth, the kind that actually matters in the long run.
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