Whenever people (of whatever age) ask me about the writing process, I have to tell them how very much I still have to learn. This is, after all, a craft, and no matter how much someone knows, there are still many ways to improve. In fact, that's one of the best parts about the writer's craft: The horizon of excellence is ever receding. We can always get better, which means we can always grow as people.

My own advice to new writers boils down to three words:

Observe.

Practice.

Believe.

Observe. Notice the world around you, in deep detail. How do different people speak, with their voices, faces, hands, and posture? How do different types of trees' leaves fall to the ground, each with a singular sort of flight? How do different ideas stir your passions, fears, hope, and dreams? Truly observe the world … and it becomes a fruitful source of writing ideas and elements. And besides, this is just a good way to live, to be more fully alive.

Practice. Write every chance you can. Keep a journal. Write poems, whether you prefer haiku poetry, sonnets, or enormous epics. Write letters, plays, short stories, novels—whatever gets you excited. Writing is hard, full of struggle, and greatly demanding … but it is also deeply rewarding. And practice makes you better, just as practice makes you more skillful at everything from baking a pie to piloting a spacecraft. So find the discipline to practice, and the magic of language will grow more present and familiar over time.

Believe. This is, perhaps, the most challenging part about writing. To succeed, you must truly believe in your story—in each of its characters, in its place, and in its underlying ideas. And then, even more difficult, you must believe in yourself. Know that you have valuable things to say, and the skills to say them; know that your song is unique, that your voice matters.

Think of writing as growing a tree. In the soil of your writer's heart, you have an idea—a seed. But it will need plenty of sunlight, air, and nourishing soil (as well as discipline) to grow.

How does this happen? I can only tell you how it works for me, but for every writer the process is different. When I sit down to start a novel, a process that will take between one and three years, I begin with that seed. It helps me to sketch it out, in longhand, just to get to know it better. In time, I will write an outline of its growth, though I'm always aware that outlines are only a beginning rough concept. As the seed sprouts into a sapling during the first draft of the manuscript (which, old fashioned that I am, I also write longhand), the outline is abandoned. For by now the tree itself is guiding my work: I believe in it, and listen closely to its inner voice—to its soul.

Several more rewrites help me shape the growing tree. I try to develop characters, place (really another form of character), plot, and the story's underlying ideas. When at last I feel satisfied that it is truly formed, I show a manuscript to my editor. Her comments and questions are sometimes not what I'd hoped to hear, but they are always valuable. After all, she is my ally, my fellow gardener.

Now come more rewrites. People often ask how much rewriting do I do. The answer is, quite simply, as much as it takes to get it right. You see, there is no substitute for the integrating and deepening that happens in a thorough rewrite. Quite often, I am also doing research at this stage, to make the story's characters and places feel true. For that is the ultimate test: Good fiction is true on many levels. That's right! Fiction must feel true. On the levels of the senses, the emotions, the intellect, and the soul, a story ought to win the reader's belief.

Characters, if well developed, become so real that they can walk right off the page—both for writer and reader. That is so regardless of whether the character is a man, woman, child, tree, mountain, or snow crystal. Sometimes I stop writing the story I am working on and write a brief biographical sketch of one character—just to get to know that character better. How do I know when a character is fully formed? When I can, at last, hear his or her voice. No aspect of a character's description is as revealing as the voice.

With the thoughtful comments of my editor, the book should be approaching a readable form. It is now a thriving young tree, though it has yet to bear fruit.

Connecting with both the left and right halves of the brain is crucial, for the creative process is both rational and utterly mysterious. Rewriting continues, even as my publisher sends me the galleys to proof. In time, if I am lucky, the tree has finally matured. It stands tall, with surprisingly deep roots, and a wondrous crop of fruit. And perhaps, when the wind whistles through its branches, it brings to mind some secret, half-remembered song.

—T.A. Barron