Write Things: On Writing Without Certainty

Hello writers,

One of the biggest obstacles to finishing our stories are the questions that arise.
“What is my story about?”
“How does my story end? Where does it begin?”
“Is this story any good? What’s the point?”
“Have I developed it properly?”
“Will anyone care about what I have to say?”

Unfortunately, more than 90% of all writers are crushed by the weight of these questions and never finish their story. Heck, many don’t even begin.

I’d like to change that.

Let’s see if we can’t lighten the load today.

Mindset Shift

With this in mind, I fully understand the desire to know if your story or language use is “good.” Uncertainty—especially around things that matter deeply to us—can feel unbearable. Whether we’re in conflict with a loved one, facing an unstable job market, or preparing for a first child, uncertainty always signals that something meaningful is at stake.

If the uncertainty of how to write your story feels heavy, that’s a sign that creating and sharing your story matters to you. That’s a beautiful thing.

As Viktor Frankl wrote in Man’s Search for Meaning, “Those who have a why to live can bear with almost any how.” A sense of purpose is one of the most powerful forces in life—it can carry us through incredible hardship.

So, step one: acknowledge the value of your project. Writers who abandon their work under the pressure of uncertainty often do so by convincing themselves to “one day” their dream—or to deny it entirely. When you acknowledge how much your story means to you, you create a counter-narrative strong enough to silence those “I can’t” or “I won’t” thoughts.

But how do we live with uncertainty while we write? We stop looking for outside approval.

Writing is a creative act—even when it’s personal. And creative acts are, at their heart, acts of self-expression.

You can study structure, mimic your favorite authors, or use story formulas to understand how stories work. You can use literary techniques, experiment with tropes, or edit your sentences until Stephen King himself might nod in approval—perhaps even cut a few adverbs along the way. There’s nothing wrong with that.

But as long as we rely on external approval—checking boxes, meeting imagined standards, chasing the “right” way—we can’t fully trust ourselves. 

Creativity withers under fear and judgment. And when we measure our worth by the praise or criticism of others, uncertainty only grows louder.

To create original work, it has to come from you.

We can’t control which genres are popular, what the market wants, or how many people will find our story. The only thing we can truly control is our intention.

So, if you’re going to write—write for yourself first.

Three of my favorite authors are Cormac McCarthy, Ray Bradbury, and Irvine Welsh. Try to find a common thread in their story structures or styles—you won’t.

I love all three, but never for the same reasons. Sometimes I want McCarthy’s stark brevity, sometimes a paragraph-long, whimsical sentence by Bradbury, and sometimes the raw, witty dialogue of Welsh.

Each of them writes differently—and yet there’s room at the table for them all. There’s room at the table for your voice, too.

Start by telling the story you want to tell, in the way that feels true to you.

Then, as you grow, you’ll naturally absorb new tools, structures, and styles—and bring those insights into your next creation.

There’s no single “correct” brushstroke in painting, and there’s no single “correct” way to use language in writing. Every choice simply creates a different effect.

Find the effect, idea, or feeling you want to express. Do your best to capture it. When you receive feedback, you’ll see where you succeeded and where you can refine.

That process—the desire to express yourself more clearly, creatively, or beautifully—is what keeps us learning and evolving as writers. 

With or without adverbs.

Want to hear what happens when writers let go of perfection?

Fifteen members of the Write Things Community shared raw, authentic stories—personal and fictional alike.

None of them were edited, but every single one was brave, original, and deeply human.

🎧 Listen to Episode 3 of the Write Things Podcast [here] and feel inspired to write your own.

Your Next Four Minutes

Prompt: “The Storm”

Write about a literal storm or an emotional one. What builds before it breaks? Or create a scene where a character faces chaos outside while something inside them finally settles — or erupts.

Set a timer and write freely on the topic above. Don’t edit. Don’t worry. Just go. You can post your quick write below to share the raw magic with others. No editing please, just share what you wrote in four minutes below!

From the Write Things Community

Here are some quick-writes from the Write Things Community:

Alice T.

The storm seemed to come out of no where and caught me completely off guard. My light summer sweater was soaked to the skin in what felt like seconds. The transition from bright sunny late morning was instantly very dark with flashes of furious lightning immediately followed by crackling thunder. Although I was on a busy street there wasn't an open business or a pay phone in sight. I quickly slipped down the first side street. My goal was to knock on doors until I found someone who was home and ask if I could use their phone so I could call my father to come and pick me up. Thank goodness it was a Saturday and not a school day.

Catherine S.

At the lake, the air would still, as if an updraft had halted in mid stride. The earth smelled suddenly fresh. Then a light breeze felt its way across your skin. The hairs on your neck tightened against your shirt. The skies would darken, and sudden moisture appeared in tiny drops escalating. Dogs would bark.

You’d throw down everything; run across to the pier. The wind battering already at your hair; your clothes. Sucking wind drawing the howl out of your open mouth. Blackened clouds like charred wood screamed across the lake and white waves thrashed at the timber pilings. The wood groaning at the force. Lightning in the distance brought the hope of thunder, and then, ears electrified sent quivers of excitement down your spine. As you opened yourself up to the love of a storm.

Shawna T.

I know you. You exist to take me down, pound me with your fearless rage until you weep, till you watch me drown. I dare you. Roll me into a bag and bury me deep because I’ll come back. I’ll find a way. My dead hands and my lifeless eyes will tear you up and tie you down to feed you back your pain. I will feed you to the ground, full of dirt and grime. You’ll rise up again dry and thirsty for more and I’ll be there, your storm, your rage once more. Until you weep. Until you weep old blood from your veins. Blood that once knew love. Once. I dare you.

Linda E.

She always felt the approach of a storm in her bones first. A slight ache in her arm when she picked up a book. Her body would continue to moan in protest throughout her day while at work.

She would then feel the ache behind her eyes, spreading towards the top of her head. Painkillers wouldn't ease the ache. Nor would distractions. Small tasks at work, like rearranging her pens, straightening out her files.

She would limp through the rest of the day at work until the ache became too much. She couldn't take it any longer and knew that she couldn't ignore the storm any longer.

She wrote the letter, printed it out and included all the important dates: beginning and end. When she'd be done with the pain. When the storm would end.

"I quit," she said, dropped the letter on the manager's desk and walked out of the office.she'd have to iron the dishtowels and fold them just-so before her employers arrived home.

Karis P.

I ordered up a dark n stormy from the bartender. It arrived a few moments later. I don't know what they look like so I cant describe it here but continue with the story.

The owner comes by and stops and stares at me. A storm is brewing in her eyes.

"You!" she points a finger at me and I put my hands up like she's pointing a gun. "You slept with my husband."

I back up and she jumps over the bar and pushes me. To the back. Of the room. There is a storm blowing, a winter storm and if she locks me out i'll freeze to death.

'I didn't know he was married Storm!" We start fighting like cats when a voice booms towards us.

"I am the Stormanator! Take your hands off her!" 

A man with a cloud on his head and lightning across his chest yells at us. I forgot, it's Halloween today.

We stop pawing at each other and she gives me a ' your not worth it wave." Like it, I just emerged out of a storm sewer.

Michelle K.

The storm was inside her.

Lurking.

Waiting.

Would it strike like a cat?

Or like a tiger?

Would it bubble like a chemistry class experiment?

Or blow like a bomb?

Could she talk herself out of it?

Or was it written in the stars?

Would the aftermath bring relief?

Or just more black clouds on the horizon?

Was she born with it?

Or did it come from years of cold and warm fronts colliding?

Was it her power?

Or her detriment?

It was waiting.

Lurking.

The storm was inside her.

Leanne M.

Rain came down in a sudden sheet of needles that blurred the world. Wind tore through the trees with a low, feral howl, and Sawyer threw his arm up to shield his face, stumbling forward as mud sucked at his boots. Lightning split the sky in two, a jagged vein of white, and for an instant the moor beyond the trees was filled in ghostly light…hills heaving like dark waves, the crooked stones of old graves standing up against the storm. Thunder followed, not as a crack more like roar…deep, ancient, like something waking beneath the earth. He froze. It wasn’t just thunder. He heard something else, above the storm…slow, heavy foot steps. He turned around, “who’s there?” he called even though his voice was carried away on the wind so no one could here it. Another flash, and this time he saw a shape standing tall between the trees. Too tall, too still. His breath caught. He ran, stumbling through the tree line. He could see the lights of home in the distance. He didn’t look back. The storm chasing him and within it, something followed.

Karla W.

She could sense grey brewing. The slight increase in velocity of the door slam when he closed cupboards. That smile that belied the shadows flickering behind his eyes. The loving hand-hold, vice-gripped to a wince. Too expansive a system to change course. Nowhere to seek shelter. It was around her—upon her. The tempest— inevitable. Muscles furl. Electrical impulses snap. Air thickens and binds. She curls fetal to fend off the deluge. Tones rumble. Dominance flashes. The clap of fist. Red, blue, green bloom then fade as dawn clears a new sky. Such blue!   

Tanus T-M.

The rain pelted down the window. There was a low droning as the wind banged against the side of the cabin. Yet, we were toasty warm inside, curled up around a lovely crackling fire. Sheltered from the deluge. Cocooned in warmth, safer from the elements.

Crack! We looked at each other in shock and ran to the door to see what happened. There was my cute little black Pruis smothered in a blanket of pine bows with half of a mature tree protruding from the windshield. Sadly the storm had not blown over, but it blew through my car.

Josie M.

The storm is getting worse. The wind is howling. The fiberglass windows of the one room cabin (albergue) are rattling. The rain is pounding on the metal roof. God, please make stop. It’s only 14kms more to Santiago. I’ve made it this far (185 km). I need to sleep and my clothes need to dry.

I awake. When did I finally fall asleep? Oh no! The clothes and shoes I had on didn’t dry. I check my backpack for the one other set of clothes I‘ve been carrying with me (don’t carry more than 10% of your body weight!), everything is is damp—that’s worse than wet.

Denis F.

The storm roared in on a pale horse.  Tornadic winds, hail the size of tennis balls, and explosive lightning that lit up the sky like it was the 1st of July.

I should have known this one was exceptional. But I was busy. Preoccupied, you might say. Writing, Hitting deadlines.  I ignored the storm as best I could, even when the lights went out. My laptop was still juiced up, so I kept going.

Then I heard it. An inhuman shriek. Followed by God awful wailing. Like death had arrived.

That gave me goosebumps.

I rose from my desk to peer outside, the candle on the counter cast eerie dancing shadows that licked the dark corners.

The lightning abated. I checked the door. Locked. Relief.

And then a thunderbolt of brightness. And just for a second. I saw something. Hooded and pale. Standing at the end of the sidewalk. A priest? An Albino?  Death…

I didn’t know it then… but the beginning of the end had arrived.

Anja P. 

The rain came down fast, without fair warning. A bright sunny afternoon on the boardwalk darkened and water burst from the skies in sheets. Families abandoned their picnics and ran to their cars. Children shrieked, running from the lake to the safety of the gazebo.

Elva froze in place, blonde hair already drenched from her moment of hesitation. She cursed her decision to walk to the beach. It was supposed to be a beautiful day! Her sneakers would be soaked, ruined! She glanced to her right. Couples huddled under the canopy of the ice cream stand. Children were laughing, dashing out and splashing in puddles.

A smile crept over her face. Her frustration dissolved into unexpected laughter. She closed her eyes and tilted her head up to the sky. Floods of memories washed over her. Her father forgetting the umbrella on the walk home from church, the whole family in their Sunday best soaked to the bone. Late nights hiding from the thunder under the bedcovers with her dog Tipi. 

She surrendered and allowed the warm summer rain to wash away her carefully made plans.

Kristin D.

During Olympic flatwater kayak training on the Glenmore reservoir in Calgary, a prairie storm blew in quickly. The clouds merged, thunder rolled and the sky looked like a purple, breath taking poltergeist - the wind picked up so fast. What had been glassy still water, perfect for training was now huge white caps, breaking over the front of our small, fragile, tippy wood vessel - a K2. We picked up our pace as quickly as possible, me in behind giving as much power as possible to Bridget's increased stroke rate. Our destination, the canoe club at the far end of the lake at the finish of the buoyed course, 1.5 km away. My eyes focused on keeping pace, in a nano-second of disbelief, Bridget's hair was standing straight up. I could smell what I imagined was brimstone as huge lightening flashed, blinding us both. I screamed "Bridge! Shore now!" She turned the kayak and we bee-lined to the steep, rocky edge of the reservoir and pulled up. Leaving the fragile racing kayak, shoeless, we scrambled up the muddy, prickly - cactus covered side to the private golf course and hid under a tree. Shivering we waited out the rain, hugged each other for warmth...hoping against hope we didn't damage our fragile wood paddles or kayak. We then noticed our feet...

If you enjoyed the newsletter, please share it with a friend. The more writers we get writing, the more wonderful stories we’ll have in the world.

Until next time, I wish you and your stories all the best,

Trevor Martens
Founder, I Help You Write Things