I would say just start writing. You've got to write every day.

The words of Elmore Leonard, though humble and light with humor, conceal within them a teaching as old as art itself: “I would say just start writing. You've got to write every day. someone that you like if you think that perhaps could become your sound, too. I did that with Hemingway, and I thought I was writing just like Hemingway. Then all of a sudden it occurred to me — he didn't have a sense of humor. I don't know anything he's written that's funny.” What seems at first like a writer’s anecdote is in truth a lesson on the birth of originality, the forging of voice through imitation, and the awakening of self-awareness that separates the craftsman from the artist.

In these words, Leonard speaks as the wise do — not from abstraction, but from the soil of experience. The first command, “just start writing,” is the call to creation. He reminds us that discipline, not inspiration, is the true altar of mastery. To write every day is to make a covenant with one’s own potential. The ancients would have called it devotion — the daily tending of the inner flame. For the gods of creativity favor those who labor without waiting for divine permission. The act of repetition, of constant practice, awakens the spirit within the work. Thus, Leonard tells us that genius is not born in flashes of lightning, but in the steady rhythm of the hand that refuses to stop.

Then he speaks of imitation, not as theft but as initiation. “ someone that you like,” he says — a truth known to every apprentice since the dawn of craft. The sculptors of Greece learned first by tracing the lines of their masters; the poets of Rome sang in the meter of Homer before they found their own songs. Even the young Leonardo da Vinci once filled his notebooks with studies of his teacher Verrocchio before his own genius took flight. Through imitation, the mind learns the architecture of beauty. But Leonard reminds us that such imitation is not the destination — it is the training ground, the shaping of one’s instrument before one’s own melody can emerge.

In this, Ernest Hemingway becomes Leonard’s chosen teacher — the master of lean prose, of restraint, of muscular clarity. Yet Leonard’s revelation comes not from mimicry, but from awakening: he realizes that Hemingway lacked humor, that his solemn genius did not align with Leonard’s own spirit. This moment — when the student sees not only what the teacher possesses, but what they lack — marks the birth of individuality. The young writer, once in awe, must one day outgrow the shadow of the master. To learn is to borrow; to create is to return what was borrowed, transformed.

Leonard’s discovery of humor is more than a stylistic choice — it is an act of self-knowledge. In recognizing that laughter was part of his truth, he chose authenticity over imitation. The ancients would say that he found his daimon, the inner guide that whispers one’s true path. Many seek to become another, but only those who listen inwardly can become themselves. The realization that Hemingway was not funny was not mockery — it was liberation. For Leonard understood that art, to live, must reflect the artist’s soul; and his soul carried the pulse of irony, wit, and lightness.

Consider Michelangelo, who once said, “I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.” So too must every artist carve away the influence of others until only their truest form remains. Leonard began with the marble of Hemingway — solid, formidable, revered — but in time, he carved from it his own shape, lighter, wittier, more alive with mischief. This is the sacred rhythm of creation: we learn through others until we remember ourselves. Every writer, painter, and thinker must walk this path — from imitation to independence, from admiration to authenticity.

The lesson, then, is clear: begin, imitate, awaken, and transcend. Start where you are. Do not wait for brilliance; let your work be your teacher. Study those you admire, not to become them, but to discover, through them, who you are not. And when at last you find that your voice diverges — when your humor, your rhythm, your truth emerges — follow it with courage. For that is your offering to the world: the song that only you can sing.

And so, dear listener, remember Leonard’s gentle wisdom. Every great voice is born from silence, shaped by mimicry, and refined through realization. Work daily. Learn boldly. Laugh at yourself. For discipline is the forge, humor is the spark, and self-awareness is the flame that turns imitation into art. When you reach the moment that you see your own reflection in the mirror of your craft — when you recognize, as Leonard did, what is missing from your teacher’s hand — then you will know that your voice has begun to speak, and that it speaks with truth.