There are many ways to write. You can do so disparagingly, with only half your heart as you phone it in, putting enough of yourself into the work so that when tapped it rings of bronze and not tin. You can write honestly, seeking no artifice or glamour, not reaching for beauty or the perfect metaphor but simply for the right word, the exact phrase, conveying as clearly and simply as you can what you wish to convey. You can write seductively, in love with the very process, aroused by the language, crafting each passage with languorous care and delight, titillating the senses and beguiling the reader. You can push yourself, walk out on the ledge as you seek to extend your grasp beyond your reach, daring yourself to new artistic heights, asking yourself to prove that your high estimation of your own work is merited. You can borrow the tongues of dead men and women, emulate your heroes, speak with their voices as you honor them or steal their style. You can write loutishly, crude beginnings, a clumsy lover that is all elbows and too much effort, struggling with form and process as you seek to learn your craft. You can approach it as a craftsman, sheer the art of all mystery and unpack your toolbox as you tackle the project with a gauging eye and callused hand. You can churn it out. You can stumble and fall. You can reach, you can grasp, you can fail and will fail again.
And one day, perhaps – if you’re lucky – you’ll learn to write as yourself, inimitable and true.