So, you’ve got something to say, and you’re ready to write about it.

Then, you’re stricken by a common curse that afflicts every writer at some time or another.

You don’t know how to start. Those first few words defy discovery. You think of enough opening lines to fill a book, and to you they all stink. Or you draw nonstop blanks. A er a fruitless time suck, you give up.

What you are doing at that instant is cheating yourself out of a fulfilling and even surprising experience. You’re also denying your friends and family, and in some cases all of posterity, a chance to learn something about who you are, what you’ve done or what’s important to you.

If you take the advice of countless writers, editors and teachers, you’ll find a simple way to overcome the first-line blockage.

Write the second line.

By that I mean just start saying what you want to say. Begin your story as if your spouse or grandchild were sitting next to you. Where or when does the story begin? “I was at boot camp.” would work. So would “It was the summer of 1965.” Don’t think about writing the story; tell it.

From that point, your tale or your message should start flowing, just like it does when you start to tell a joke or share an anecdote from the past. Once it gets going, try not to stop. Let the torrent of words run its course. Then you can go back and tinker with it as much or as little as you like.

Warning: stopping can be as challenging as starting. Some writers never let go; they keep adding unnecessary wordage or fixing what doesn’t need fixing. Remember, perfect is the enemy of good. Look for the moment you can comfortably declare your piece done…and let go.

As for that missing first line, you’d be surprised how o en the writing process sparks an idea to fill that void. It may not reach the level of “It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.” So what? If it gets you and your reader into your piece, that’s all that matters.

So much for the mechanics of writing. Now let me try to convince you of its value. I’m not talking about any monetary value or historical value or literary value or even the archiving value. I mean the value to you personally.

You can talk about something all you want, but it will never have the impact on you and others that the written word creates. There’s a permanence, a stature, a gravitas unmatched by any other form of communication.

Only you can feel the amazement and satisfaction when something appears on a screen or on paper that you instantly realize is pretty damn good. Maybe it’s funny or profound or whatever, but it came from you, and it’s there for the ages. Maybe you’ll be the only one who ever sees it. Even so, you still get that buzz, that rush, when words that you piece together reflect a thought or idea so well that you say to yourself, “Damn, where did THAT come from?”  ere’s no feeling like it. It still happens to me, and I’ve been writing almost nonstop for more than 50 years.

The buzz only intensifies when you summon the courage to show it to someone else. Maybe it’s just a relative or trusted friend. I say courage because you are a er all exposing your work, and therefore your ego, to judgement and even criticism.

Hopefully, your editor or coach will be gentle but candid. If you like the suggestions, use them. If not, ignore them (graciously). After all, it’s your work, not theirs. But in the process, you will discover that someone else likes your writing as much as you do, maybe more.

Finally, when the piece is done to your satisfaction, bask in the accomplishment. You’ve put something dear to you into words. Or, perhaps, you’ve dragged something from an internal dark place out into the light, where you, perhaps with the help of others, can find a new perspective to ease the burden it has caused.

If you’re a veteran, there’s one more step to consider. When your prose or poetry piece is complete to your satisfaction, send it to us via our online system (veteransvoices.org). We’ll consider it for publication in this magazine. We can’t publish every submission, but I promise you we will try hard to find a way to make you a published author.

Good luck and warmest regards,
Ted Iliff