Around 2001, our school principal asked me to teach Communication Arts to high school students. More specifically, she wanted me to teach creative writing.
I said yes.
Then I faced a problem I had not admitted when I accepted the assignment: I did not know how to teach creative writing.
I had read William Zinsser’s On Writing Well some years before. The book taught me to recognize clear writing, remove unnecessary words, and respect the reader. But recognizing good writing was very different from producing it.
I was not a native English speaker. My vocabulary felt limited. I certainly did not write like William Zinsser.
Yet there I was, expected to teach students how to write well in English.
They thought good writers started with good writing
My students had their own problem.
They had become familiar with a kind of writing instruction that began with polished examples. A teacher would show them a beautiful essay written by an accomplished author, then ask them to produce something similar.
The example was supposed to inspire them.
Instead, it frightened them.
They saw the finished work but not the process behind it. They did not see the first draft, the crossed-out sentences, the rewritten paragraphs, or the pages the author decided not to use.
They compared their first attempt with someone else’s finished performance.
Then they said, “Sir, I don’t have an idea.”
Others said they did not know how to begin. Some believed they were not good writers because the first sentences they produced did not sound like the essays in their textbooks.
I understood them because I had the same fear.
How could I teach them to write when I was also unsure of my own writing?
So I went to the library.
I found something simple enough to try
I looked for books about writing. I was not searching for a grand philosophy of literature. I needed something I could understand and bring into the classroom the next day.
One of the books discussed freewriting.
The instructions were simple. Sit down. Keep the pen moving. Write whatever comes to mind. Do not correct the grammar while writing. Do not search for the perfect word. Do not judge the work before you have produced it.
Just write.
The following day, I asked the students to prepare a notebook. It did not need to be expensive or beautiful because I was not going to grade it.
“Open your notebook,” I told them. “For the next three minutes, write anything that comes to mind.”
They looked at me as if I had forgotten to give the rest of the instruction.
“Anything, Sir?”
“Anything.”
“What is the topic?”
“There is no topic.”
One student asked what to do if nothing came to mind.
“Write, ‘Nothing comes to mind.’ Write it again if necessary. You can write A, B, C, D. You can describe the room. You can doodle. But for three minutes, keep your pen moving.”
I looked at the clock and told them to begin.
At first, the room resisted
Some students immediately lowered their heads and began writing. Others stared at the page as though I had asked them to perform a magic trick.
One student wrote a few words, stopped, and looked at me for permission to give up.
I pointed back to his notebook.
“Keep writing.”
Slowly, the room changed. Pens began moving. Some students smiled at what appeared on the page. Others covered their notebooks when classmates tried to look.
When the three minutes ended, I asked whether anyone wanted to share. They were not required to read because the notebook belonged to them.
At first, no one volunteered.
Then one student raised a hand.
The writing was simple. But as the student read, something interesting happened. The words on the page led to more words that had not been written. The student paused, explained a detail, and added a story.
Another student shared. Then another.
They had started the exercise believing they had nothing to say. Three minutes later, they had stories, opinions, questions, and memories.
The ideas did not always come before the writing.
Many of them came because the students kept writing.
Three minutes became part of the class
We continued doing the exercise every day.
Sometimes I allowed them to write anything. On other days, I gave them a prompt.
“If I were a member of the opposite sex, I would…”
“If I were an ant, how would this classroom look to me?”
“If I could change one rule in this school…”
They could follow the prompt or ignore it. They could return to an unfinished idea from the previous day. The only requirement was to keep writing for three minutes.
Again, the exercise was not graded.
I did not want every sentence to become another performance for the teacher. I wanted them to have a place where they could meet their own thoughts without asking what score those thoughts deserved.
Over time, some students kept writing after the three minutes ended. Others began writing outside class even when I had not assigned anything.
They discovered that one sentence could lead to another. An ordinary observation could become a question. A question could uncover a memory, and a memory could become a story.
I told them something I had learned from the books: writing is one of the shortest paths to thinking.
When they wrote regularly, they began to understand how they reasoned. When they read what they had written, they often explained more. The words on the page helped them find the next words to say.
Freewriting did not merely help them produce essays.
It helped them speak their minds.
Then I began thinking about inspiration
One day, while preparing a lesson plan, I started thinking about the advice commonly given to writers.
Find your muse.
Wait for inspiration.
Search for the idea that will make you want to write.
The advice sounded romantic. We imagine that a great writer sits quietly until a powerful idea arrives. Inspiration touches the writer, and beautiful words begin to flow.
But what if inspiration does not come?
What should my students do on an ordinary Tuesday when their minds feel empty and the page looks harder than it did yesterday?
I looked at what had already been happening in the classroom.
The students did not always begin with an idea. Some began by writing that they had nothing to say. Yet when they kept their pens moving, a thought appeared. That thought attracted another.
I experienced the same thing because I also practiced freewriting.
I would begin without a topic. The first lines were often useless. I might write about the heat, the noise outside, or the fact that I did not know what to write.
Then, somewhere in the middle, I would find something.
A sentence would surprise me. A question would appear that I wanted to answer. The writing before it may have looked like a mess, but that mess had brought me to the real subject.
Sometimes the final sentence became the introduction.
I would move it to the beginning and build the article from there.
The idea had not been waiting fully formed inside my head before I began. I discovered it through the act of writing.
That changed how I understood inspiration.
An army of inspiration will march with you
I do not remember the exact words I placed in that lesson plan. But I remember the central idea.
If you want to become a writer, sit down and write.
Do not wait until you know what the finished work will become. Do not require the first sentence to impress anyone. Begin with whatever you have.
Keep writing.
Then a line appeared:
When you start writing, an army of inspiration will march along with you.
I liked the line immediately.
What amused me was that I had not planned it. I did not search for a clever quotation. It arrived while I was working.
That was the lesson.
Inspiration did not come first and give me permission to begin. Inspiration appeared because I had begun.
The work gave inspiration somewhere to find me.
Inspiration is not the enemy
Years later, I encountered a line that many professionals repeat:
Inspiration is for amateurs. Professionals show up and get to work.
I understand the point. Professionals do not make inspiration a requirement for performance. Writers write even when every sentence feels difficult. Leaders hold necessary conversations even when they would rather avoid them. Entrepreneurs speak to customers even when they are uncertain about the offer.
They show up.
But I would not say inspiration is useless or that professionals no longer need it.
Professionals also become inspired. The difference is that they know inspiration is often found inside the work.
They do not sit outside the work, waiting to feel ready. They enter it.
Once inside, they notice something. A difficult question appears. A memory returns. The problem begins to reveal its shape. One small result creates energy for the next attempt.
Inspiration stops being an entrance requirement.
It becomes a companion.
Waiting for inspiration can look reasonable
This does not happen only to writers.
A manager delays preparing a proposal because the strategy is not yet clear. A supervisor postpones a difficult conversation because the timing does not feel right. A professional avoids publishing an idea because the opening is not strong enough.
They are not necessarily lazy. Some care so much about the work that they do not want to produce anything ordinary.
But this desire for excellence can create a wall between them and the work that would help them improve.
You cannot refine a proposal that does not exist. You cannot improve a conversation you refuse to begin. You cannot discover whether an idea matters while it remains safely inside your head.
The first attempt does not need to prove your excellence.
It needs to give you something to work with.
The work can teach you what to do
When I entered that classroom, I did not know how to teach creative writing. I did not wait until I had become an expert before doing anything.
I went to the library. I found one practice I could understand. I tried it with the students.
Then I watched what happened.
Their questions taught me. Their resistance showed me what needed explanation. Their writing revealed what the exercise could do. My own freewriting helped me understand why it worked.
The action became part of my preparation.
This is important because we often imagine preparation and action as two separate stages. First, we prepare until we are ready. Then we do the work.
But much of our preparation comes through participation.
The first speech teaches the next speech. The first customer conversation improves the offer. The first article shows the writer what the idea is really about.
Some answers do not exist before we begin.
They appear because we moved.
Professionals build a way to enter the work
A professional does not depend on the perfect mood. The professional has a practice that makes beginning easier.
For my students, it was a notebook and three minutes.
For a writer, it may be one page before checking email. For a leader, it may be one important conversation before the week becomes crowded with urgent requests. For a business owner, it may be speaking to one customer before improving another part of the website.
The practice does not have to be impressive.
It must create contact with the real work.
This is where many people go wrong. They tell themselves to start small, but they choose an activity that allows them to remain safely outside the work. The writer buys another notebook. The entrepreneur redesigns the logo. The manager creates another meeting agenda.
These may be useful, but they can also delay the moment that creates evidence.
Write the paragraph. Make the call. Ask the question. Show the draft.
Give the work something it can answer.
Begin before you know where the work will lead
I still freewrite today.
Sometimes I use a notebook. Sometimes I speak. I begin with a question and allow the answer to form while I am talking.
This is also how I often use ChatGPT. I do not ask it to invent my stories. I ask it to give me a prompt or ask a question. Then I tell the story.
As I speak, I hear myself think. I revise a phrase. I reject one word and choose another. Sometimes a breakthrough idea appears unexpectedly.
I stop and say, “That is good.”
The thought came from me, yet it still feels discovered. I found it because I stayed in motion long enough for it to become visible.
That is what freewriting taught me in 2001.
Thinking does not always arrive before expression. Sometimes expression helps us think.
Inspiration does not always arrive before action. Sometimes action creates inspiration.
Give inspiration somewhere to find you
You may have something important you want to write, start, solve, or change.
Perhaps you are waiting for a clear idea. You may be waiting for confidence, energy, the right words, or a feeling that tells you the time has finally come.
Do not wait too long.
Open the document. Set a timer. Write the first paragraph, even when it feels ordinary. Begin the conversation, even when you do not know exactly where it will end. Create the first version, even when you already know it needs improvement.
You do not need to complete the whole work today.
You need to enter it.
Once you enter, the work begins giving something back. It gives you questions, resistance, feedback, memories, and evidence. One move reveals the next move.
This is what I call Move First.
You do not wait for inspiration, confidence, or perfect clarity before beginning. You begin with the smallest honest action, and you allow the work to create some of what you were waiting for.
Professionals show up and get to work.
Not because they never need inspiration.
They show up because they know that when the work begins, inspiration often marches along with them.
About Jef Menguin
Jef Menguin is a Filipino motivational speaker, leadership consultant, and creator of Move First. He helps leaders, teams, professionals, and students turn hesitation into meaningful action through memorable stories, practical shifts, and one meaningful move.
Explore Jef’s Move First motivational speeches or connect with him on LinkedIn.