Prose and Pawns - Building Towards Brilliance
Everyone's blogging journey is different. There are thousands of us, but no starting or end point will ever truly be the same. I started blogging because it was a nice distraction from the novel I have been writing since August 2025. I am currently 16 chapters and 60,000 words in and, according to my carefully constructed outline, it should conclude at 20 chapters in total. So tantalizingly close, yet so far. Novel writing is not for the faint-hearted. You somehow have to simultaneously manage and maintain an overarching plot, the setting, decent pacing, a logical structure, a flowing narrative, a consistent point of view, realistic yet intriguing dialogue, and characters along with their development as they deal with their goals, motivations, and conflicts throughout the story. Whenever I temporarily get stuck on this Herculean task, I try to keep the creative juices flowing and not lose my innate love for writing by producing a chess blog. I usually craft my blogs within three hours, after which I generally try to return to my novel.
At some point in (novel) writing, raw discipline has to take over. Many people have this romantic view of writing, with the author sitting down at a desk in their morning gown with a cup of coffee, blissfully isolating themselves from the cruel and judgmental world outside their window, typing away as the words come pouring out like a symphony of unspoken thoughts. The harsh truth, however, is that writing will not always be enjoyable. In fact, sometimes it will be the single most frustrating experience of your life. You will doubt yourself at every word and worry that you have lost that magical touch. Motivation will falter, inspiration will fade, and ultimately the story will refuse to move forward. You will wonder why you are putting in so much effort, with your mental energy melting like snow in the sun, and you will question whether you are writing something that even makes a smidgen of sense, knowing all the while that it will still need to be heavily edited and polished. You would love to share your anguish with people, but no one around you will care or understand, and even those kind people who once pretended to care will eventually move on. You will look up statistics for success, or even just traditional publishing, and be hit hard by the daunting prospects.
To get through all that, you just have to commit to the idea that you are going to finish your first book because you want to finish what you have started. That is really what it comes down to, because otherwise it will linger in your thoughts and torture you for a long time. Despite this, the vast majority of writers simply do not finish their projects. An innumerable number of manuscripts end up in a drawer, unfinished, unwanted, and ultimately unseen. The silver lining is that if you manage to push through, your next book will most likely be better. On top of that, the whole process will be familiar and therefore easier, and thus you will likely finish it much faster. But to get to that point, you have to actually finish the first one.
Notice how similar those struggles can feel to chess improvement? Just read the second paragraph about the hardships of crafting a novel again, but think of chess instead of writing. It resonates reasonably well, doesn't it? Discipline, frustration, motivation, inspiration, self-doubt, a lack of meaningful progress, an utter depletion of energy, and no realistic prospects for fame probably hit close to home.
Improving at writing and chess is also quite similar. Both are built on solid fundamentals that cannot be skipped, and with those in mind, we have tools at our disposal to decide whether things “work” or “fail”. With writing, it is generally advised to read a lot and write outside your comfort zone, while with chess, it is often said to study Grandmaster games and play higher-rated players. However, none of those situations will ever be exactly the same. You are not going to copy someone’s vivid, breathtaking prose word for word, and you will also not get the exact same middlegame positions from the Grandmaster games you duly studied. Sometimes things just do not click, and improvement suddenly feels as unattainable as a World Cup spot for Italy. The key is to try to spot and absorb patterns until they subconsciously become part of your arsenal. In both writing and chess, you improve through deep reflection, unwavering persistence, and gentle correction. An endless loop of ideas, evaluation, refinement with outside help, and internalization. Attempt after attempt. Analysis after analysis.
Yes, I mentioned outside help. Humans are inherently social creatures who want to connect with others over their work, and they generally love receiving compliments or feedback. Some people seeking feedback confuse it with validation and become defensive when confronted with constructive criticism, immediately shutting down one of the most important ways to improve. Conversely, some people giving feedback confuse it with subjective taste and become ineffective, removing themselves as a useful source of improvement. Writing critique can feel personal, and chess losses, the ultimate form of feedback, can feel humiliating. Now, what actually constitutes helpful feedback in writing? I’m glad you asked! The most valuable form of feedback, and the way of delivering it, was actually taught to me by my high school art teacher. Yes, not someone necessarily specialized in writing. The beautiful thing about giving feedback, however, is that it applies to a wide range of disciplines.
As the person providing feedback, it may be tempting to dive right in and point out everything that does not sit right with you, but it is often counterproductive to take the brush from the student and try to “fix” their work. If you truly wish to help someone, it is vital to first understand their level of technical ability and, ideally, what lies just beyond it, within reach but not yet mastered. That crucial next step on their personal improvement ladder. Next, discuss their project with them to truly understand their vision and just what they are trying to accomplish. Then, any feedback you offer should always be in good faith and focused on helping them better achieve their own vision while preserving their own voice and style, since every piece of art needs a piece of identity. This is the most difficult part of providing effective feedback, because it requires actively engaging with the work and attempting to understand the artist’s perspective. It is very different from simply explaining why you did not like something, how you would have done it instead, or what would have made you like it more. Notice how that latter approach actually centers on you rather than the artist? How would they improve if all they really learn is about your subjective taste?
Here is an example of how I, as a novelist rather than a chess blogger, recently tried to do just that. My friend @theeldest1 is a very established blogger on this platform, but he still appreciates my feedback.
For example, in his Blogchamps final(!) entry, a true testament to his skill as a blogger, he writes: “Sitting with my family at the awards ceremony, the wait was nerve-wracking as we sat through the trophy presentation until they came to the top 15 in the K-12.”
This is a typical example of “show, don’t tell”. Instead of simply stating that the wait was nerve-wracking, plainly labeling the emotion, make the audience feel it through sensory details and physical reactions. Write short sentences like: “My heart was beating frantically in my chest. The ticking clock grew deafening. My palms became sweaty. My breath hitched in my throat. I found myself utterly unable to sit still.”
Another example of this from the same blog:
“There are no words to describe this. Missing out on the qualifiers by half a point in tiebreaks is unfortunate. Very unfortunate.”
He is absolutely right. There should not be words to describe it, but rather feelings and actions that leave a stronger impact: “My heart sank. The numbers echoed through my head like a drum. Half a point? The air became too thick to breathe…”
Just like in writing, we occasionally go overboard in chess. Once, in an OTB team match, I was playing the last game and reached a winning position. Many moves won easily, and even the prospect of a Knight-and-Bishop checkmate did not intimidate me. One rainy Sunday afternoon, I had drilled the W-maneuver, and I can proudly say I can now execute that checkmate within 30 seconds. There were about 15 people gathered around my board when I calmly played the following move:
This, too, closely mirrors writing and the constant decision-making it entails. Do I go for flowery prose, or do I simply convey the message? Do I choose the flashy but unnecessary sacrifice, or do I just secure the win? Well, the artist’s choice is obvious…
Maybe you have read all this and thought: “Boy howdy, that was all very interesting, but what was the point?” I will be honest and admit that this blog was mostly an excuse to ramble about my writing perspectives and experiences. However, since some of you came for the chess, I will conclude with the best OTB game I have ever played. An amazing chess game like this one *cough* has much in common with a powerful novel: a strong opening that shapes everything that follows, a seamless transition into the middlegame where moves adhere to structure, follow a narrative, control pacing, incite conflict, build toward a climax, and finally an unexpected yet satisfying resolution that shows character growth and leaves the audience in awe.
