(and why I still had to start anyway)
Writing a book often begins with a contradiction.
On the one hand, you feel you have an idea, a direction, something to say.
On the other, you know perfectly well you’re not ready. Not really. Not technically. Not methodologically.
When I started writing my first volume, I very clearly estimated that I had only about five percent of the knowledge needed to write a book. That number is not metaphorical. It wasn’t false modesty, nor a speech meant to sound good. It was a factual assessment.
And yet, I started.
If I had waited until I was sure, I would never have written a single line.
Starting before understanding: a necessity, not recklessness
There is one essential thing every author must understand—or experience:
you can only access knowledge that lies at the edge of what you already know.
From where you stand, you can only see a limited number of obstacles… and a limited number of possible paths.
When you move forward—even clumsily—your field of vision expands. New obstacles appear. New options as well.
Only after you’ve overcome a first obstacle do you discover the next ones—and the doors that begin to open.
You can’t build on knowledge you don’t have.
But you can expand your foundation step by step by moving forward.
That’s why starting to write, even imperfectly, is a prerequisite for any real progress. Waiting to understand before acting is condemning yourself to stagnation.
What I knew… and what I didn’t know at all
I wasn’t completely naïve. I knew that:
- I needed a clear idea of where I wanted to go;
- writing would require time, discipline, and patience;
- it wouldn’t be easy or quick.
However, I didn’t know—or I seriously underestimated—a set of fundamental notions that would end up structuring my entire writing process.
Levels of language: a discovery that changes everything in writing
Before writing, I didn’t truly realize there were:
- levels of language;
- tonalities;
- linguistic traits specific to a narrative voice or a character.
I could intuitively sense that “something sounded off” in certain texts.
I didn’t know why.
Micro-examples (before / after)
Before (uniform voice)
“I will go with you, no matter what it entails.”
After (distinct voices)
- Noble: “I will accompany you, whatever the consequences may be.”
- Casual teenager: “I’m coming with you. That’s it. We’ll see.”
That distinction is crucial.
Naming these concepts changes everything. As long as a concept isn’t named, it’s impossible to:
- look it up;
- study it;
- apply it consciously;
- or correct it deliberately.
Understanding that a character speaks a certain way because they are a certain way—and not because the author always speaks the same—was a decisive turning point in my writing.
These distinctions are the foundation of everything that follows. Without them, it’s impossible to build coherent characters.
Character psychology: a silent prerequisite for credibility
Another decisive discovery: character psychology is not decorative.
It’s a practical tool.
It helps avoid a very common beginner mistake: a break in characterization.
A character can’t, without a coherent reason:
- suddenly act in opposition to who they are;
- adopt a strategy that fits neither their role nor their life experience;
- react in a way that serves the plot but betrays their personality.
Example of a break in characterization
- Mistake: a hyper-cautious strategist charges in with no information “because it’s more spectacular.”
- Fix: they test, observe, set a trap, then act when the risk is bounded.
When psychological coherence isn’t respected, characters end up resembling one another. They lose their distinct voice. The story becomes a uniform narration where you constantly feel the author behind every line.
That’s when narrative depth disappears.
In a fantasy universe—or a light novel isekai—this coherence is even more crucial: societies, hierarchies, roles, and life trajectories impose strong psychological constraints. Ignoring them weakens the entire structure.
Writing isn’t speaking: learning to step out of yourself
One fundamental point I could never have applied without the concepts above: an author should not write the way they speak.
Jean-Louis Vill has a way of speaking, a language level, a tone that are his.
But Jean-Louis Vill is not the one telling the story.
And Jean-Louis Vill’s voice should not be heard through every character.
That distinction is deliberate and conscious.
It also led me to an important conclusion: you can’t hand your text to just any editor or proofreader without a clear framework. A correction that injects an alien tone can distort a text—especially in codified genres like the light novel.
Understanding this means taking back control of your narration.
Discipline and progression
I’ve always known one thing: discipline beats talent.
Talent alone builds nothing. It reveals itself through effort, repetition, and consistency.
Natural ease exists, of course, but it never replaces work and structure.
You start, you practice, you fail, you persist, and you correct.
Learning—and discovering narrative tension
Narrative progression, especially in isekai, relies on lack, constraint, and friction.
A path that’s too smooth kills tension. A protagonist who never fails stops being interesting.
This approach isn’t intuitive. You learn it by writing, observing, and revising.
There are many ways—more or less effective—to make a reader feel an emotion. Too much explanation makes it artificial; too little suffocates it before it can even form.
Example
Instead of: “He was terrified.”
Show: His fingers missed the ring a second time. The door vibrated.
In light novels, a rule of thumb is often not to name the emotion directly.
Within kishōtenketsu—a four-part narrative structure that underpins the deeper framework of my light novel and emphasizes the protagonist’s journey more than their final objective—this principle becomes central.
Correct consciously rather than failing blindly
Making mistakes is inevitable.
Making them without being aware of them is avoidable.
As I moved forward, the feedback I received—when it was relevant—helped me:
- identify real weaknesses;
- deepen my research;
- refine my narrative choices.
Intuition became method.
What was felt became structured.
A published first book is almost never the first version. It’s the result of a process of adjustment, correction, and progressive clarification.
A note on feedback
Not all feedback is equal.
I received one particularly harsh critique that I ignored completely—not out of pride, but out of rigor. I knew that person simply hadn’t perceived what was truly happening in the text.
They claimed, for instance, that my female characters were interchangeable, that they had “the same flavor.” The exact wording doesn’t matter: I kept nothing of it.
Why?
Because, on the contrary, virtually all other feedback—unanimous on this point—highlighted the psychological depth of the characters. And I knew that aspect was solid, because every sentence, every line, every behavior was aligned with a rigorously built psychological foundation.
So yes: I’m talking about relevant criticism.
And determining relevance is something you’ll have to learn for yourself. It’s impossible to please everyone, and not all critiques carry the same weight.
What is worth remembering
If I had to summarize the essentials:
- you have to start before you understand;
- you must name what you discover in order to progress;
- conscious mistakes are better than unconscious ones;
- you find your authorial voice by writing, not by waiting.
Before writing even a single line of fiction, some foundations still need to be set: project, framework, expectations, constraints. I covered that in Writing Your First Book: What You Need to Understand Before Writing the First Line.
Here, I deliberately focused on what comes after: what you can only learn by actually writing.
If this article can reduce even a little of the cognitive load for someone who’s just starting, then it will have done its job.
Writing is learning to write.
You still have to accept to begin.