Yes — we all know the answer to that.
The blinking cursor on a blank page can inhibit creativity and repel even confident writers. In last week’s session one of you noted that this anxiety has eased a little with the rise of AI: you can ask it to generate a first draft “straw person” (or Aunt Sally) and at least the page is no longer empty. I understand the appeal. My own workflow is slightly different: I write something rough myself, then ask AI to strengthen or restructure it, and then take it back again. Either way, the point is the same — the blank page is often the real enemy.
Over the years I have run a number of academic writing sessions for doctoral students and early-career colleagues wrestling with their first papers. A question I am frequently asked — in a very academic way — is: what book would you recommend?
There are plenty of “how to write your first paper” guides. Most do not convince me. But there is one book I recommend repeatedly: On Writing by Stephen King (2000).
I am not a particular fan of King’s fiction, although I do appreciate a good thriller. I can’t even remember how I first came across the book, but it had a lasting impact on me. It is part autobiography, part craft manual, and it is the honesty of his craft reflections that struck a chord. King is direct, practical, and refreshingly unromantic about writing. Most importantly: much of what he says applies to academic writing.
Yes, fiction and academic papers are different products. But the underlying craft — sitting down, producing words, revising brutally, and communicating clearly — is the same. Later in this piece I’ll summarise five “King Rules” that translate surprisingly well into academic life. But the idea I return to most often is this: writing as discovery.
Writing as discovery (not just reporting)
For several years I managed a department with many ecologists — excellent ones. Their mode of working is often closer to what you might recognise from clinical or experimental environments. They design a specific experiment with a strong statistical foundation. They collect targeted data to test a model. They analyse, graph, discuss and conclude. In principle, the paper’s structure is mapped out before fingers touch the keyboard. There is a clarity and discipline to this approach that I admire — and sometimes envy.
My own work is often different — more inductive, more discovery-based. I operate within broad paradigms that are themselves contested. The heart of the job is often unearthing evidence that will make or break an interpretation. Experimental design matters, but in different ways: choosing where to look, what to measure, and how to interpret ambiguous traces. When I come to write, I frequently have data, a discovery, an idea, and a case to argue — but not all the answers. So writing is not just “reporting what I already know”. Writing becomes the place where I discover what I actually think.
An idea I held confidently can collapse as I try to articulate it — too flimsy, too fanciful, or simply unsupported by the evidence. Often I have multiple working hypotheses running in parallel; preparing figures and forcing myself to write a coherent argument helps winnow them. It is how I find the true shape of the work.
That is why King’s metaphor resonates so strongly. He likens writing to digging for a dinosaur skeleton. The bones are there, buried — a leg here, a skull there — but you don’t know the full form until you excavate patiently. Some writers are “plotters”, mapping the whole story in advance. Others are “discoverers”, learning the story by writing it.
Academic writing often contains both modes. Even when we think we know what the paper is, the act of writing tests the coherence. It exposes the weak joints. It reveals the missing vertebrae.
Fiction, research, and the useful role of “Bob”
I write fiction originally for my children and now largely for myself. I recognise the way a story can become wilful — how characters begin to steer the plot. Sometimes I begin with a synopsis and ask “Bob” (ChatGPT) to turn it into a more structured arc with beats. It gives me confidence to start.
But as I write, the arc shifts. Scenes evolve and characters grow. The world I am creating pushes back. In truth, that isn’t so different from writing an academic paper. The difference is that I have gained over the years an instinctive familiarity with academic structure, so I use AI differently — more as an editor than a generator. Either way, the key point is this:
Writing is not simply the communication of thought.
It is one of the main ways we produce thought.
From writing to strategy: the same mechanism at a larger scale
You might be thinking: this is all very well for papers, but what about research strategy? Here is my argument: the same “writing as discovery” principle applies at the level of direction and prioritisation.
Many institutions now require formal research plans. You may have them at your university. They often include free-text boxes in which you’re expected to articulate vision, priorities, and intended outcomes. Free-text can feel like bureaucracy — and sometimes it is. Bournemouth has recently introduced a fairly fierce research planning process, linked directly to workload allocation, so it really matters.
But whether or not the system is bureaucratic, the act of writing a plan can be genuinely useful. It forces coherence and it reveals contradictions. It surfaces contingencies. It shows you where the vision is vague, or where you’re quietly trying to do five things at once.
This week I sat down with my wife Sally to discuss her strategy. We talked for an hour, argued (constructively), debated options, and settled on a two-pronged plan. New markers were obtained and the plan is now rendered — in glorious technical colour — on her office wall.
But the real test is not the diagram. The real test is: can you write it as a word portrait? That is where the logic gaps appear. That is where the priorities become clear. That is where the “this is what I really mean” emerges.
Do I have a vision? Yes. It lives in my head — often as a mentally congested muddle of ideas. Should I write it down and explore it? Of course I should. Will I do so? Probably not. Sometimes older researchers are best not followed slavishly.
But when someone asks me how to work out research strategy — so that prioritisation becomes possible — my answer is simple: Draw it out boldly… then explore it in words.
Five Writing Rules for Researchers
(Borrowed from Stephen King — Applied to Academia)
- Writers Write (Even When They Don’t Feel Like It)
King’s principle: Writing is a daily practice, not an act of inspiration. Academic translation:
Don’t wait for the perfect mood.
Don’t wait for a full day.
Don’t wait for clarity.
Write something.
Even 300 words.
Even a rough paragraph.
Even a structural sketch.
Keep the momentum going even if the mood is not there! And this links to the “Small Push” doctrine which is core to the time philosophy presented in Time Slave to Time Shaper.
- First Drafts Are Meant to Be Messy
King’s principle: Write the first draft with the door closed.
Don’t show it.
Don’t polish it.
Don’t overthink it.
Academic translation Stop trying to write the final published version on page one. First drafts are for:
Thinking
Discovering argument
Finding structure
Editing comes later — door open.
This fights perfection procrastination.
- Clarity Is Kindness
King’s principle: Avoid unnecessary complexity. For example he hates passive voice and ornamental language.
Academic translation:
If your sentence is difficult to understand, it probably isn’t profound.
Clear writing:
Respects the reader.
Strengthens the argument.
Reveals weak thinking.
Clarity is not simplification. It is precision.
- Cut 10% or more
King’s rule: Second draft = First draft − 10% [in truth I would actually say more!]
Academic translation:
Be ruthless.
Remove repetition.
Cut defensive paragraphs.
Delete clever but irrelevant tangents.
Ask:
Does this move the argument forward?
If not, it goes.
This is where quality improves dramatically.
- Writing Is Thinking Made Visible
King’s idea: Writing is telepathy across time.
Academic translation:
You are not producing text.
You are transmitting thought.
If the reader struggles:
The thinking may not yet be clear.
The structure may be weak.
The argument may be hidden.
Writing clarifies thinking.
It doesn’t merely record it.
(C) Matthew Bennett, 2026.
