Limits, we see them posted everywhere throughout our lives. We see them physically, in signs on the road, or in places, we are not supposed to go. We grow up with our parents saying, “You can’t do this, you can’t do that,” and then there are limits that we apply to ourselves, “Oh I could never do this, I could never do that.” Some boundaries are good to have, some we need to get over in order to grow. What about your imagination, or your ability as a writer, do you know what those limits are? (Hint: you should not.)

What stories can or should you tell? I believe whatever story sits down with you when you get to the business of writing is the story you tell. It’s good to know what your limits are in terms of how much you can carry, how many people fit in an elevator, but when it comes to creativity the word ‘limit’ has no place. If a pregnant woman from another world wearing armor sits next to me, or a Korean dictator, a boy afraid of the Devil, or my father, I don’t ask questions, I write.

Don’t let the lack of knowledge on a topic deter you. When in doubt, research. We live in the information golden age. The more you learn the more you can relate to your chosen topic, or not, but you’ll likely know where you stand. If you still have something honest to say about it after you’ve done the research, then go for it. When a story has your ear and won’t let it go, you write it down, no matter what it is.

In my opinion, the most important qualification for writing anything is truth. The author has to be honest with their readers. Even if you write fantasy, horror, crime fiction, or children’s books, just be true to it. Whatever you write is going to be a part of the human story, even if there isn’t a single human in it. Stay true to the writing and the why, the reader will know when you lie.

We can’t worry about what will or won’t get published. I say that as much for my own good as anyone else’s. Writing is hard, but when it has a hold of you, it’s as necessary as breathing. Technically, I’ve written three books. The first one was to see if I could string a story long enough to call it a “book,” I did, but it is terrible. I wrote the second one out of spite and anger fueled by my political and social sense of justice. It was better than the first one, but also terrible. Unless I someday dust off those old manuscripts and try to breathe new life in them, they will be old book-bones in a chest. I didn’t know who I was as a writer yet. I also wrote an awful, didactic epic poem. One-hundred-and-fifty pages of iambic pentameter later, it too sits in a box gathering dust. My third novel is fantasy fiction and I have never been more in love with writing than I was typing away for a decade on that book. I worked my full-time job, kept strong relationships with other humans, and wrote as much as eight hours a day, every day. That story and the characters in it simply would not let me rest.

Twenty years ago, I would have laughed if someone told me I’d be writing fantasy fiction. Back then, I was going to write the next literary masterpiece though I stuttered and struggled to write consistently. Now, I write every day. I have further to go, and I am not by any means satisfied or finished trying. But I know my voice and I write with confidence because I know who I am as a writer. There’s something to be said for that.

Writing is exploration. It is a walk alone and unarmed in a wilderness that creates itself as you go. Like going on a hike, you start on a path that is worn and well known. Keep putting one word in front of the other. Eventually, you feel the pull to veer off the path and see what you can find. Explore. There are times when you might get lost, but more often, if you let it, you get found.