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The mastermind behind The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit, JRR Tolkien is celebrated as one of the greatest fantasy authors of all time.
His work has inspired generations of readers and writers alike, including Ursula K. Le Guin and J. K. Rowling, shaping the landscape of modern fantasy literature. In addition to his iconic novels, people are fascinated by Tolkien's writing habits and how he managed to be so prolific within one human lifetime.
The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien, published by Tolkien's son, Christopher, after his death provide a fantastic peek into the writer's personal life. Spanning more than six decades, the letters offer a chronological narrative of Tolkien's life and work. From his humble beginnings as a scholar to the towering figure of fantasy literature, Tolkien's correspondence reveals the evolution of his ideas and the challenges he faced in bringing his vision to life.
Hidden within these experiences is a treasure trove of writing advice writers probably don't want to hear. Let's explore four of these gems that challenge conventional wisdom:
One April letter from Tolkien reads:
The man had just 1-2 hours of writing a day and some "moments" and still managed to generate half a million words for the Lord of the Rings trilogy alone? Yes, even literary greats had to deal with the real world on a daily basis.
In fact, Tolkien had many other responsibilities that pulled him away from his writing, such as work as a translator and professor. (He also helped during the creation of the Oxford English Dictionary.) But he didn't let that stop him.
P.S. Do you use generic working titles for your writing? It can't be more banal than using "Ring" to describe the sprawling fantasy epic that is Lord of the Rings!
Tolkien famously wrote extensive backgrounds to enrich his world-building. In one letter, he advises his son that "the tale should be more like a web than a chain." Perhaps the most impressive aspect of this web was Tolkien's fictional languages, including entire language families like Elvish and Dwarvish.
As a philologist, Tolkien was deeply familiar with the intricate nuances of words and their etymology. Tolkien's assertion is that delving into language creation not only enriched the world-building process but also lent authenticity and depth to his fictional cultures. Some of his languages even came before his books!
Now, we're not saying you need to create 15 different Elvish dialects. But we are saying that the richer the world-building, the more engaging the story. Tolkien is proof.
If you're familiar with C.S. Lewis's relationship with Tolkien, you might know that Tolkien famously (and publicly) disliked allegory in literature. He and Lewis, though good friends, often butted heads about it.
Tolkien particularly hated when readers interpreted The Lord of the Rings as an allegory for World War II or other contemporary events. He vehemently denied any intentional allegorical elements in his work, saying:
Some scholars say this dislike of allegory relates to why Tolkien disliked Dune, writing in a private letter in 1966:
Thought it's just as likely Tolkien didn't like Dune for other reasons — like its treatment of religion (he was a devout Catholic) or political and societal commentary.
One of the most poignant aspects of The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien is Tolkien's reflections on the impact of fame and the pressure of literary success.
Many writers imagine a future level of success where this whole "creating intimate worlds and releasing them to the public for consumption and ridicule" thing gets easier. But Tolkien is evidence that it doesn't work like that.
After the commercial success of The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien struggled to complete anything, revising the same stories over and over. (Sounds like he needed a Freewrite.) Tolkien is said to have worried that fans would be unsatisfied by stories not set in Middle Earth. He even wrote a few pages of a LOTR sequel before shelving it. When he died, Tolkien left behind a treasure trove of unpublished work.
At the end of the day, Tolkien's legacy serves as a reminder that true creativity must stem from a sincere passion for one's craft, rather than the pursuit of fame or fortune, in order to be sustainable.
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Whether you're a longtime fan of Tolkien's work or a newcomer to the universe of Middle Earth, Tolkien's writing life has left behind a legacy rich enough to inspire and enchant any writer.
What's your favorite aspect of Tolkien's legacy?
Recently, over 10,000 writers, writing instructors, and publishers from across the U.S. gathered at the annual conference for the Association of Writers & Writing Programs.
We asked them to answer a few questions about creativity and living a writing life. Here's what they had to say...
I’ve spent years writing while secretly fearing that a single misplaced word would expose me — not just as a bad writer, but as a fraud.
My background is originally in photography, and I see it there, too. A photographer I know recently posted a before-and-after comparison of their editing from 2018 versus now, asking if we also saw changes in our own work over the years.
Naturally, we should. If our work is the same, years apart, have we really grown as artists?
So why is that the growing, the process of it, the daily grind of it, is so painful?
So why is that the growing, the process of it, the daily grind of it, is so painful?
Hitting “publish” on an essay or a blog always stirs up insecurity — the overthinking, the over-editing. The fear that someone will call me out for not being a real writer.
I initially hesitated to make writing part of my freelance work. My background is in photography and design. Writing was something I gravitated toward, but I had no degree to validate it. No official stamp of approval.
Like many writers, I started with zero confidence in my voice — agonizing over edits, drowning in research, second-guessing every word.
I even created a shield for myself: ghostwriting.
I even created a shield for myself: ghostwriting.
If my words weren’t my own, they couldn’t be wrong. Ghostwriting meant safety — no risk, no vulnerability, just words without ownership.
I still remember the feeling of scrolling to the bottom of an article I had written and seeing someone else’s name, their face beside words that had once been mine. It felt uncanny — like recognizing your handwriting but not remembering when or why you wrote those words. I knew it was mine, but it didn't feel like it belonged to me anymore.
The truth is, I always wanted to write. As a kid, I imagined it. Yet, I found myself handing over my work, letting someone else own it.
I told myself it didn’t matter. It was work. Getting paid to write should be enough.
But here’s the thing: I wasn’t just playing it safe — I was slowly erasing myself. Word by word. Edit by edit. And finally, in the by-line.
I wasn’t just playing it safe — I was slowly erasing myself. Word by word. Edit by edit. And finally, in the by-line.
This was true when I was writing under my own name, too. The more I worried about getting it right, the less I sounded like me.
I worried. I worried about how long an essay was (“people will be bored”), finding endless examples as proof of my research (“no way my own opinion is valid on its own”), the title I gave a piece (“it has to be a hook”), or editing out personal touches (“better to be safe than be seen”).
I built a guardrail around my writing, adjusting, tweaking, over-correcting. Advice meant to help only locked me in. It created a sentence rewritten to sound smarter, an opinion softened to sound safer, a paragraph reshaped to sound acceptable.
I built a guardrail around my writing, adjusting, tweaking, over-correcting.
But playing it safe makes the work dull. Writing loses its edge.
It took deliberate effort to break this habit. I’m not perfect, but here’s what I know after a year of intentionally letting my writing sound like me:
My work is clearer. It moves with my own rhythm. It’s less shaped by external influence, by fear, by the constant need to smooth it into something more polished, more likable.
But playing it safe makes the work dull. Writing loses its edge.
The drive for acceptance is a slippery slope — one we don’t always realize we’re sliding down. It’s present in the small choices that pull us away from artistic integrity: checking how others did it first, tweaking our work to fit a mold, hesitating before saying what we actually mean.
And let’s be honest — this isn’t just about writing. It bleeds into everything.
It’s there when we stay silent in the face of wrongdoing, when we hold back our true way of being, when we choose work that feels “respectable,” whatever that means. It’s in every “yes” we say when we really want to say “no.”
If your self-expression is rooted in a need for acceptance, are you creating for yourself — or for others? Does your work help you explore your thoughts, your life? Does it add depth, energy, and meaning?
My work is clearer. It moves with my own rhythm. It’s less shaped by external influence, by fear, by the constant need to smooth it into something more polished, more likable.
I get it. We’re social creatures. Isolation isn’t the answer. Ignoring societal norms won’t make us better writers. Often, the most meaningful work is born from responding to or resisting those norms.
But knowing yourself well enough to recognize when acceptance is shaping your work brings clarity.
Am I doing this to be part of a community, to build connections, to learn and grow?
Or am I doing this to meet someone else’s expectations, dulling my voice just to fit in?
Here’s what I know as I look back at my writing: I’m grateful for the years spent learning, for the times I sought acceptance with curiosity. But I’m in a different phase now.
I know who I am, and those who connect with my work reflect that back at me — in the messages they send, in the conversations we share.
I know who I am, and those who connect with my work reflect that back at me — in the messages they send, in the conversations we share.
It’s our differences that drive growth. I want to nurture these connections, to be challenged by difference, to keep writing in a way that feels like me. The me who isn’t afraid to show what I think and care about.
So, I ask you, as I ask myself now:
If no one was watching, if no one could judge, what would you write?
If no one was watching, if no one could judge, what would you write?
A book deal without an agent? An agent offer after a book deal? Learn how Writer Bobby Miller took his publishing journey into his own hands.
