All writers have their own pet commandments.

In the words of Darin Strauss: “All writers have their own pet commandments.” This statement, though brief, carries the weight of centuries of human expression. It tells us that behind every story, poem, or chronicle lies not only talent and inspiration but also discipline—a personal code of laws by which the writer shapes chaos into order. Just as nations are governed by commandments written on tablets or laws etched into stone, so too are writers governed by their own invisible rules, born from experience, struggle, and devotion to their craft.

The origin of this thought can be traced to the very dawn of literature. The poets of old, whether reciting epics around the fire or inscribing symbols upon clay, followed rules—sometimes strict, sometimes secret—that gave form to their words. The bards of Greece had commandments of memory and rhythm, ensuring the verses of Homer would endure across generations. The monks who illuminated manuscripts in the Middle Ages had commandments of patience and reverence, treating every word as sacred. Strauss reminds us that though writers differ in time and place, each has forged for himself or herself a personal code of creation.

These pet commandments are not identical for all. For one writer, it may be “Always tell the truth, even if it hurts.” For another, “Never begin without knowing the ending.” For yet another, “Write every day, no matter how small the harvest.” They are intimate, personal, and sometimes unspoken. Yet they are what keep the writer tethered to the page when inspiration wanes. They transform writing from a mere act of whim into a discipline, a path walked with purpose.

History gives us clear examples. Leo Tolstoy demanded of himself truth and moral clarity in all he wrote, making his commandment a mirror of conscience. Ernest Hemingway vowed to keep sentences short and true, stripping away ornament to reveal the essence of life. James Joyce, by contrast, made his commandment experimentation, daring to push language itself into new forms. Their commandments were different, yet each shaped a body of work that endures. Without such rules, their writing would have been formless and their legacy uncertain.

Strauss’s words also remind us of a paradox: discipline gives birth to freedom. A writer’s commandments do not restrict imagination but focus it, just as the frame of a painting intensifies the image within. By choosing personal commandments, the writer sets boundaries that sharpen creativity, forcing the mind to work with precision, clarity, and intent. The ancients knew this well; the poet who mastered the strict meter of verse often found more beauty in rhythm than the one who scattered words carelessly. So too does the writer today discover freedom within chosen limits.

The deeper meaning of the quote is not confined to writing alone. For in truth, all people have their own commandments, guiding their labor, their love, their art, and their lives. A carpenter may vow never to leave a beam unmeasured; a teacher may hold sacred the commandment never to abandon a student; a healer may be bound to the commandment of compassion above all. These personal rules, like the writer’s commandments, are the anchors of integrity and the roots of mastery.

The lesson is clear: find your commandments, and hold to them. If you are a writer, reflect on what truths shape your words, and let them be your guide when doubt or distraction arises. If you walk another path, know that your craft too requires its laws—its sacred practices that separate the mediocre from the great. Do not leave them vague or unspoken; write them in your heart and live them daily.

Thus Darin Strauss’s words endure as a timeless teaching: to create, one must live by a code. And though each person’s code may differ, it is the faithfulness to that code that transforms labor into art and effort into greatness. For in the end, it is not chance that shapes legacy, but the commandments one chooses and follows with devotion.