Day 349

The Gift of Creating Life with Words: Innate Talent, Learned Skill, or a Bit of Both?

“Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, the most powerful tool we have ever created.” – J.K. Rowling

When a story sweeps us off our feet, a poem makes our hearts ache, or a speech moves a crowd to tears, we instinctively label the author a “gifted” or “talented” writer. It feels as if they possess a mysterious, almost magical ability to conjure whole worlds from thin air.

But is the art of breathing life into language something you’re born with, or can anyone learn to wield it with equal flair? In this post we’ll explore the science and the folklore behind writing excellence, dissect the myths of the “born writer,” and lay out practical pathways for anyone who wants to transform words into living, breathing experiences.

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1. The Allure of the “Natural Talent” Narrative

1.1. Why We Romanticise the Gifted Writer

• Heroic storytelling – Just as societies celebrate prodigies in music, sport, and mathematics, literature loves its “genius” figures (Shakespeare, Hemingway, Toni Morrison).
• Cognitive bias – The availability heuristic makes us recall the few celebrated authors, overlooking the countless writers who arrived at greatness through deliberate practice.
• Cultural mythos – The Romantic era glorified the solitary muse, cementing the idea that true art springs from a mystical well within.

1.2. What Research Really Says

Neuroscientists have mapped the brain activity of skilled writers, and the findings are enlightening:

Brain Region	Role in Writing	What the Data Shows
Broca’s area	Syntax, grammar	Highly active in both novice and expert writers, suggesting that basic language processing is universal.
Prefrontal cortex	Planning, organization	Shows increased connectivity in seasoned writers, indicating that strategic thinking can be honed.
Default mode network (DMN)	Imagination, mind‑wandering	Stronger activation correlates with creative ideation, but DMN activity can be cultivated through practices like free‑writing.

The takeaway? There are no “magic” brain circuits that only a few possess. The same neural hardware is available to everyone; the difference lies in how it’s trained, wired, and used over time.

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2. The Science of Skill Acquisition

2.1. Deliberate Practice—The Engine of Mastery

Psychologist K. Anders Ericsson introduced the concept of deliberate practice: intentional, feedback‑rich, and just beyond your current ability. In writing, this translates to:

• Targeted exercises (e.g., “write a scene using only dialogue” or “describe a setting in 100 words”).
• Immediate feedback from peers, mentors, or software tools.
• Iterative revision—the willingness to rewrite, re‑structure, and re‑think.

2.2. The 10,000‑Hour Rule—A Misinterpretation

Gladwell popularised the idea that 10,000 hours leads to mastery. While practice matters, the quality of those hours matters far more. A novice who writes 10,000 bland sentences won’t rival a diligent writer who spends 2,000 hours on focused storytelling drills.

2.3. Neuroplasticity—Your Brain Can Rewire

Every time you craft a sentence, you’re forging new synaptic pathways. Studies in adult neuroplasticity demonstrate that consistent writing practice enlarges language‑related brain regions and improves narrative comprehension. In short: You can literally rewire yourself to be a better writer.

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3. The Role of Reading: The Unsung Curriculum

“If you want to write, write, and if you want to read, read.” – C. S. Lewis

Reading is the foundational apprenticeship for any writer. Here’s why:

Aspect	How Reading Helps	Practical Tip
Vocabulary	Exposure to varied diction builds lexical richness.	Keep a “word‑bank” notebook; add a new, striking word each week.
Structure	Mimic a paragraph in the style of your favourite author, then rewrite it in your voice.	After each book, outline its structure in 5–7 bullet points.
Voice	Understanding expectations lets you subvert or honour them intelligently.	Analysing plot arcs, pacing, and chapter organisation reveals the scaffolding behind stories.
Genre Conventions	Understanding expectations lets you subvert or honor them intelligently.	Read at least three classic works in any genre you plan to write.

In other words—reading is the silent teacher that precedes formal instruction.

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4. Teaching the Craft: What Formal Education (and Informal Mentorship) Offers

4.1. What Writing Courses Actually Teach

1. Fundamentals of Storytelling – Hero’s journey, three‑act structure, conflict types.
2. Tools of the Trade – Dialogue tags, sensory description, active vs. passive voice.
3. Revision Strategies – Macro‑editing (plot, pacing) vs. micro‑editing (sentence flow, grammar).
4. Critique Techniques – Giving and receiving constructive feedback without ego.

4.2. Mentorship vs. Classroom

• Mentorship—Personalised, often informal. One‑on‑one feedback accelerates growth because it’s tailored to your specific blind spots.
• Workshops—Group environments foster diverse perspectives, exposing you to styles you’d never encounter alone.

4.3. Digital Resources: The New‑Age Writing Academy

• Online courses (MasterClass, Coursera, edX) – Structured curricula from bestselling authors.
• Writing communities (r/WritingPrompts, Scribophile, Critique Circle) – Peer review loops.
• AI‑assisted tools (Grammarly, ProWritingAid, ChatGPT) – Real‑time suggestions for grammar, style, and even plot brainstorming.

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5. Practical Steps to Turn “Potential” into “Prose”

Below is a 12‑week sprint that anyone can follow, regardless of background. Think of it as a bootcamp for the “gift of creating life with words.”

Week	Focus	Action Item	Time Commitment
1	Observation	Keep a daily 5‑minute “sensory log” of what you see, hear, smell.	5 min/day
2	Micro‑Storytelling	Write 100‑word flash fiction using only one sense.	15 min/day
3	Dialogue Drill	Transcribe a real conversation, then rewrite it to reveal subtext.	30 min total
4	Structural Mapping	Outline the plot of your favorite novel in three acts.	1 hour
5	Voice Exploration	Imitate a paragraph from three different authors; then rewrite it in your own voice.	45 min
6	Feedback Loop	Share a 1,000‑word piece with a peer group; receive and integrate feedback.	2 hours
7	Revision Mastery	Take a piece you wrote in Week 2 and perform a macro‑edit (plot, pacing).	1 hour
8	Genre Deep Dive	Read a classic in a new genre; write a 500‑word piece that follows its conventions.	2 hours reading + 1 hour writing
9	Narrative Tension	Write a scene where the stakes are revealed only through action, not exposition.	1 hour
10	Mentor Session	Arrange a 30‑minute call with a more experienced writer (could be via a forum).	30 min
11	Polish & Publish	Edit a short story for submission to a literary journal or online platform.	2 hours
12	Reflection	Write a 500‑word essay on how your writing has changed over the program.	30 min

Consistency beats intensity. Even 15 minutes a day, if focused, yields measurable improvement.

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6. Common Myths Debunked

Myth	Reality
“You’re either born a writer or you’re not.”	Writing is a skill that can be systematically improved, much like learning a musical instrument.
“Good writers don’t need to edit.”	Even the most celebrated authors (e.g., Stephen King) claim they spend 90 % of their time editing.
“Inspiration is magical and uncontrollable.”	While moments of inspiration happen, they are often the byproduct of sustained preparation.
“Only formal education matters.”	Self‑directed learning, reading, and community critique often produce equally adept writers.

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7. The Bottom Line: Talent Meets Training

The truth lies somewhere in the middle:

• Innate predispositions—such as a keen sense of observation, empathy, or an early love for language—can give a head start.
• Deliberate practice—the daily grind of writing, reading, revising, and seeking feedback—turns that potential into proficiency.
• Guided instruction—whether through a university course, an online tutorial, or a mentorship—provides the scaffolding that accelerates growth.

So, the “gift of creating life with words” isn’t a static, hereditary trait; it’s a dynamic, learnable craft that flourishes when curiosity meets discipline.

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8. Takeaway Action: Your First Step Right Now

1. Grab a notebook (or open a note‑app).
2. Set a timer for five minutes and write whatever you see out the window, without judging.
3. Repeat tomorrow, adding one new sensory detail.

In just a week, you’ll have a mini-catalogue of lived experience to draw upon—one of the most valuable reservoirs any writer can own.

Days 347 and 348

Use alternative words for Good, Afraid, Trouble, Look and Quiet…

…

The question was:  sum your life up in five words.

I’d heard about the show, one with a funny title that when people asked, they couldn’t quite get it exactly right, but close enough to “This was your life”.

I thought it was about dead people, odd, because I knew it was impossible to interview dead people, though those days, someone told me, anything was possible on television.

Then I thought it was about people almost at the end of their life, as a celebration of a celebrity, or someone famous.

It was a surprise to learn it was about ordinary people.

Like me.  You couldn’t find anyone more ordinary, or as several people told me, utterly forgettable.

That hurt, but in a sense, they were right.

Which made me wonder just how it was that I received a letter in the mail telling me I had been selected for an episode.

Of course, I thought someone was playing a hoax, and rang them, expecting to be laughed at, but no.  I was being asked to go on the show.

I have no idea why I agreed.

…

When I arrived at the studio, I was taken to an office where the executive producer told me what was going to happen: sign some papers to say I was not going to divulge details of the show before it was broadcast, and what my five words were.

They were different for each participant.

Today, they were recording five episodes.  I was going to be the last.

…

My words were Good, Afraid, Trouble, Look and Quiet.  I had plenty of time to think about them in relation to my story.

And that was the odd thing … I actually had a story.

“So,” the host said, in that mesmerising voice of hers that had both the audience and the objects entranced, “Tell us what the word Good means to you.”

Of course, it wasn’t just the word good, it was a better word that meant the same thing.

“It wasn’t just a good day, it was a fantastic, unbelievable day.”

I remembered it well, that last day of high school, when it was, in a lot of cases, the last time I would see my fellow classmates.

Most of them I never wanted to see again, because that final year had been marked by more lows than highs, culminating in my date for the Prom falling ill, and so I didn’t go.  Then I discovered she lied, went with my so-called best friend, and made those last weeks unbearable.

So much so, I headed straight for the railway station and intended to hide at my grandmother’s house on the other side of the country.

The day started badly, arguing with my parents, arguing with my siblings, getting into three separate scuffles at school, then coming home and throwing a few things into a backpack and leaving before I saw anyone at home.

Every step from the house to the railway depot was a reminder of each betrayal, so by the time I sat in the waiting room, an hour before the train was due, I was mentally and physically exhausted.

I expected someone from home would come and try to persuade me to stay.

They didn’t.

Perhaps that was the final betrayal.  The fact that not one of my own family cared whether I stayed or left.

Very few people took the train.  Most people leaving town went to the airport and got a plane.  There was a bus, but it took forever to get anywhere, and the train was an acceptable alternative.

I was the only one leaving town by train.

Until I wasn’t.

There were five students in that final year that I had to say shared my disposition, in that we preferred to study, get good grades and then go to college.  The other three left a week before, have all gained admission to an Ivy League university.

I hadn’t applied.

The other person was Alison Breton. 

She was one of those people who no one gave a second look at, or so much as a first.  She was clever, and all the boys didn’t like girls who were smarter than they.

She was also plain, or so it appeared, which caused most of the boys to point out her faults, such as how she presented herself.  Unlike the other girls who dressed to impress, wore make-up and looked stunning, even if it was an objectifying description, she preferred to be different.

I thought she was brave.

We barely spoke, though we were in the same study group with the three Ivy Leaguers.  Two of them were keen on her, but she was not the dating sort.  Or so they said.

Ten minutes before the train arrived, another person came and sat in the waiting room.

Alison Breton.

I ignored her for five whole minutes.  I mean, what could I say to her?

It was where the host mentioned the second word, afraid.

It was part of the truth, and summed up how I felt about her.  I was afraid of her.  Afraid, or, more to the point, literally terrified.

I had imagined in my mind many times what I would say to her, fabricating long and, I thought, interesting conversations.

And if I let my imagination stretch a little further, I might have to admit I liked her, perhaps more than I should, but could and would never admit it.  One humiliation by a girl in a lifetime was enough, and my completely shattered ego couldn’t take another rejection.

Five whole minutes before she said, “So you’re leaving this dump too?”

It was obvious I was, though the dump was harsh.

And then words came out that were not my own.  “What’s your excuse?”

I knew the moment I tried to speak to her, it would be over.  Maryanne, the betrayer, was different.  I could speak to her, and because of that, I thought she was the one.

She smiled.  “Probably the same as yours.  James told me he loved me, but he didn’t.  Apparently, I’m the subject of a bet.”

I’d heard a rumour and couldn’t believe it.  Or perhaps I could.  Small town, small-minded boys, one ambition, to have what they couldn’t.

“Best get out of town then.”  My solution to the problem wasn’t a one-size-fits-all all.

But it was a response to the host dropping the word trouble.  And then looked, and was quiet.  It seemed they were all intertwining in the narrative that was unfolding.

“That doesn’t explain your desire to leave, other than the Maryanne humiliation.  I guess a month away from here might make it go away.”

“It won’t.  I have brothers who will never let me forget.  You grow up in this place, no one forgets the trouble, or more appropriately, your legacy.”

“It’s always us quiet kids, eh, the ones who don’t make a fuss, who are studious and respectful, who don’t want to be noticed.  No matter how we look or feel.  I tried to be invisible.”

“It made you stand out more than the Maryannes.  I was just fodder for girls like her, pandering to the mores of the football team, and you know what they were like.”

Being smart didn’t make us immune from being hurt or hoping against hope we had a chance.

We both heard the sound of the horn in the distance, a warning that the train was approaching the railway crossing, about two or three miles outside of town.

The train, like always, was running late.

She stood.  “Where are you going?”

“San Francisco.  My grandmother.  She has a large house and many unusual friends.  She was an actress once, when Hollywood was going through its black and white phase.”

“I’m going there too.  My mother’s sister, though I suspect she isn’t.  Maybe we can pretend we’re brother and sister, to be safe.”

I shrugged.  Why not?  Once we got there, I’d probably never see her again.

…

“Except,” Alison said, holding my hand, and talking to the host with that whimsical expression she had when telling others the story of how we met, “we talked and talked and fell in love, got married, have five amazing children, twelve equally amazing grandchildren, and just lived our lives.  Nothing special, and yet to us, very, very special.”

And then, surprisingly, our time was up.  I had expected it would take half the time allotted.  Instead, it was two hours later, and no one, not any of us, had noticed.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Days 347 and 348

Use alternative words for Good, Afraid, Trouble, Look and Quiet…

…

The question was:  sum your life up in five words.

I’d heard about the show, one with a funny title that when people asked, they couldn’t quite get it exactly right, but close enough to “This was your life”.

I thought it was about dead people, odd, because I knew it was impossible to interview dead people, though those days, someone told me, anything was possible on television.

Then I thought it was about people almost at the end of their life, as a celebration of a celebrity, or someone famous.

It was a surprise to learn it was about ordinary people.

Like me.  You couldn’t find anyone more ordinary, or as several people told me, utterly forgettable.

That hurt, but in a sense, they were right.

Which made me wonder just how it was that I received a letter in the mail telling me I had been selected for an episode.

Of course, I thought someone was playing a hoax, and rang them, expecting to be laughed at, but no.  I was being asked to go on the show.

I have no idea why I agreed.

…

When I arrived at the studio, I was taken to an office where the executive producer told me what was going to happen: sign some papers to say I was not going to divulge details of the show before it was broadcast, and what my five words were.

They were different for each participant.

Today, they were recording five episodes.  I was going to be the last.

…

My words were Good, Afraid, Trouble, Look and Quiet.  I had plenty of time to think about them in relation to my story.

And that was the odd thing … I actually had a story.

“So,” the host said, in that mesmerising voice of hers that had both the audience and the objects entranced, “Tell us what the word Good means to you.”

Of course, it wasn’t just the word good, it was a better word that meant the same thing.

“It wasn’t just a good day, it was a fantastic, unbelievable day.”

I remembered it well, that last day of high school, when it was, in a lot of cases, the last time I would see my fellow classmates.

Most of them I never wanted to see again, because that final year had been marked by more lows than highs, culminating in my date for the Prom falling ill, and so I didn’t go.  Then I discovered she lied, went with my so-called best friend, and made those last weeks unbearable.

So much so, I headed straight for the railway station and intended to hide at my grandmother’s house on the other side of the country.

The day started badly, arguing with my parents, arguing with my siblings, getting into three separate scuffles at school, then coming home and throwing a few things into a backpack and leaving before I saw anyone at home.

Every step from the house to the railway depot was a reminder of each betrayal, so by the time I sat in the waiting room, an hour before the train was due, I was mentally and physically exhausted.

I expected someone from home would come and try to persuade me to stay.

They didn’t.

Perhaps that was the final betrayal.  The fact that not one of my own family cared whether I stayed or left.

Very few people took the train.  Most people leaving town went to the airport and got a plane.  There was a bus, but it took forever to get anywhere, and the train was an acceptable alternative.

I was the only one leaving town by train.

Until I wasn’t.

There were five students in that final year that I had to say shared my disposition, in that we preferred to study, get good grades and then go to college.  The other three left a week before, have all gained admission to an Ivy League university.

I hadn’t applied.

The other person was Alison Breton. 

She was one of those people who no one gave a second look at, or so much as a first.  She was clever, and all the boys didn’t like girls who were smarter than they.

She was also plain, or so it appeared, which caused most of the boys to point out her faults, such as how she presented herself.  Unlike the other girls who dressed to impress, wore make-up and looked stunning, even if it was an objectifying description, she preferred to be different.

I thought she was brave.

We barely spoke, though we were in the same study group with the three Ivy Leaguers.  Two of them were keen on her, but she was not the dating sort.  Or so they said.

Ten minutes before the train arrived, another person came and sat in the waiting room.

Alison Breton.

I ignored her for five whole minutes.  I mean, what could I say to her?

It was where the host mentioned the second word, afraid.

It was part of the truth, and summed up how I felt about her.  I was afraid of her.  Afraid, or, more to the point, literally terrified.

I had imagined in my mind many times what I would say to her, fabricating long and, I thought, interesting conversations.

And if I let my imagination stretch a little further, I might have to admit I liked her, perhaps more than I should, but could and would never admit it.  One humiliation by a girl in a lifetime was enough, and my completely shattered ego couldn’t take another rejection.

Five whole minutes before she said, “So you’re leaving this dump too?”

It was obvious I was, though the dump was harsh.

And then words came out that were not my own.  “What’s your excuse?”

I knew the moment I tried to speak to her, it would be over.  Maryanne, the betrayer, was different.  I could speak to her, and because of that, I thought she was the one.

She smiled.  “Probably the same as yours.  James told me he loved me, but he didn’t.  Apparently, I’m the subject of a bet.”

I’d heard a rumour and couldn’t believe it.  Or perhaps I could.  Small town, small-minded boys, one ambition, to have what they couldn’t.

“Best get out of town then.”  My solution to the problem wasn’t a one-size-fits-all all.

But it was a response to the host dropping the word trouble.  And then looked, and was quiet.  It seemed they were all intertwining in the narrative that was unfolding.

“That doesn’t explain your desire to leave, other than the Maryanne humiliation.  I guess a month away from here might make it go away.”

“It won’t.  I have brothers who will never let me forget.  You grow up in this place, no one forgets the trouble, or more appropriately, your legacy.”

“It’s always us quiet kids, eh, the ones who don’t make a fuss, who are studious and respectful, who don’t want to be noticed.  No matter how we look or feel.  I tried to be invisible.”

“It made you stand out more than the Maryannes.  I was just fodder for girls like her, pandering to the mores of the football team, and you know what they were like.”

Being smart didn’t make us immune from being hurt or hoping against hope we had a chance.

We both heard the sound of the horn in the distance, a warning that the train was approaching the railway crossing, about two or three miles outside of town.

The train, like always, was running late.

She stood.  “Where are you going?”

“San Francisco.  My grandmother.  She has a large house and many unusual friends.  She was an actress once, when Hollywood was going through its black and white phase.”

“I’m going there too.  My mother’s sister, though I suspect she isn’t.  Maybe we can pretend we’re brother and sister, to be safe.”

I shrugged.  Why not?  Once we got there, I’d probably never see her again.

…

“Except,” Alison said, holding my hand, and talking to the host with that whimsical expression she had when telling others the story of how we met, “we talked and talked and fell in love, got married, have five amazing children, twelve equally amazing grandchildren, and just lived our lives.  Nothing special, and yet to us, very, very special.”

And then, surprisingly, our time was up.  I had expected it would take half the time allotted.  Instead, it was two hours later, and no one, not any of us, had noticed.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

The beginning, which seemed so long ago…

…

So, I have to decide on the genre. Well, that’s easy, espionage. I look up at my shelves and I can see at least six authors’ novels staring me in the face, and between them over a hundred stories.

I should get started reading, to see what it is that makes them eminently readable.

Oh, been there and done that. in fact, of a library of around three thousand books of various genres, I have read over three-quarters of them.

That includes the classics, like Dickens, Hemingway, Tolstoy and my hero Alistair Maclean.

So, where do I start…

An unassuming main protagonist, the quintessential spy who looks like anything but what he is. He’s a loner, doesn’t trust anyone, and works alone, though perhaps it’s time to throw him a partner and tell him the world is changing and not for the better.

He needs a handler who is old, crusty, never wrong, dresses impeccably, doesn’t have a life, works in a dusty dungeon, and is very, very ruthless.

Will it be a choice of saving the day or saving the girl?

Is he invincible or vulnerable?

Does he have a whiny mother, demanding girlfriend, odd friends, and even odder work colleagues?

Does he talk the talk, talk in riddles, or multi-syllable words that no one can make sense of?

And what is his real job?

…

What are my ideas for this story? I generally write spy stories or thrillers, so I’m thinking that I need to put together the typical James Bond start, where you are hanging on for dear life and not knowing where it’s going to end up.

I have one: waking up in a hotel room in the Middle East, a fan above our spy turning slowly, churning the already hot air in the room. It’s the sound of the blades turning so slowly, with a creak or groan somewhere in the revolution, that wakes him, soaked in sweat and with a horrible taste in his mouth.

The attempt to drain the bar below of cold bottled beer didn’t go so well. There’s a headache to go with that, and it was all he could manage to get to the small refrigerator where he’d put a half dozen bottles of Perrier water the afternoon before.

The first went down his throat very quickly. The second helped the two painkillers go down though for a moment it felt like they’d stuck in his throat. A monetary shudder as the pills started to dissolve.

A knock on the door has him instantly alert and hand on the gun under the pillow.

“Who is it?” He yells out, not exactly the done thing in a hotel, but the last seven days of endless heat had finally taken a toll.

And today was going to be no different. The gun slipped in his wet hand, a sign that he was not sure if he would make the shot without missing by a yard or two.

“Room service.”

“I didn’t order room service.”

Silence, and then an envelope was shoved under the door.

…

Ever woken up in another part of the world in a strange bed, in a hotel or guest house, and wondered where you are?  It seems that would happen a lot if you were a road warrior.

I’m not but I still have those moments even at home in my own bed.

Is it the dreams we have that disorient us?  Like mine because they take me to different places, and different situations, and above all, it takes me out of my mundane and boring existence.

It’s time to immerse myself in a more vicarious existence.

The world of a spy.

I think an action start might work better than just introducing the main character.

The last time we visited him in a hotel room, very hot, very hungover, and not very ready to work.

Why is he there?

Most espionage works during meetings with sources, informants, and important people who defect with a bag full of state secrets.

For wads of money, of course.

Where is he, right now?  Perhaps it could be said he was not in a good place.  A very tough few years, in the firing line, and the loss of colleagues begins to make him question everything and everyone.

There is going to be a last straw, you know, that one that breaks the camel’s back.

I’m working on his background story, a legend if you like, so I’m more acquainted with the character.  I want to be able to slip into his character and be him.  It makes it easier to write when you know everything about him or her.

And, yes, there will be a her.

And yes, jaded, world-weary or not, he’s not quite done with the bad guys yet.

It’s just he wishes the moments of self-doubt would get less rather than more.

…

How did it end up?

You’ll have to read the book