There’s more than one way to skin a cat.
(For the record: I’ve never actually skinned a cat—and I don’t plan to—but you get the idea.)
The same goes for writing stories. Screenplays. Novels. Dialogue scenes that snap or monologues that haunt. There’s no single formula, no one “correct” path. But if you hang around this industry long enough, you’ll find no shortage of people who will swear there is.
The Noise of Expertise
Open your inbox. Scroll your feed. Sit through a $300 conference panel. Everyone has the method—the sacred “Save the Cat” structure, the three-act purity test, the 9-beat breakdown, the 12 stages of something-or-other that guarantees you a greenlight, an agent, or an Oscar.
Don’t get me wrong: some of it’s useful. But most of it isn’t gospel. It’s just someone else’s roadmap that happened to work for them.
I can only speak as an expert on one thing: how I write. And even that’s a little messy.
Free-Form Creativity and the Myth of the Formula
I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember. Storytelling—living through characters, letting them speak and move and break things on the page—has always been part of me. What didn’t come as naturally was punctuation, grammar, or spelling. I got “C”s in English class, while secretly dreaming up whole universes.
Later, in college, something shifted. Professors started noticing my work. They’d ask about my “process,” assuming it was some meticulous, layered thing.
Spoiler: it wasn’t.
I don’t think in acts or arcs. I don’t outline the beats of Act II before I begin. I just… start. I write. I know the direction I’m heading in and who I’m starting with—but there are always surprises along the way. New characters show up. Endings change. Plot twists sneak in while I’m making a drink.
That style probably makes structure-driven writers break into hives. And that’s fine. I’m not saying this is the way—just that it’s my way. And it works for me.
Writing for Yourself vs. Writing for the Market
Now let’s be real: when money enters the picture, everything changes.
I’ve written from outlines. I’ve been hired to fix someone else’s third act. I’ve been paid to rewrite scenes I loved—because the producers wanted more emotion, or a joke, or less emotion, or a different kind of joke. That’s the job sometimes.
And I’ll be honest: that’s when I’ve felt the most pressure to force creativity. To “be funny,” “make it better,” “make them cry—but not too much.” That kind of writing feels different. It’s writing with a shadow in the room—the shadow of deadlines, expectations, budgets, and stakeholders.
But here’s the thing: it’s still writing. And if you’re lucky enough to get paid for it, then the game shifts. You write what you love. And then, sometimes, you rewrite it so someone else will love it too.
Know Yourself. Then Write Like Hell.
The bottom line is this: know what works for you.
If structure gives you clarity—lean into it. If outlines make you feel boxed in—ditch them. Some people build story architecture before they ever type a word. Others write like they’re discovering the story while it’s happening.
There is no wrong way.
Just don’t let someone else’s rules choke out your voice. Don’t let the fear of “doing it wrong” keep you from doing it at all.
We need stories. Honest ones. Weird ones. Broken ones. Beautiful ones. And we need people brave enough to write them—on napkins, in journals, on Final Draft, on weekends, at midnight, with no guarantee of anything.
Write like your life depends on it.
Because your story just might save someone else’s.
