Does your writing need more structure?
What failing an English exam taught me about writing
The year was 2011. The startup I had joined a couple of years earlier wasn’t taking off, and the sole founder seemed to be going through a depression. My diploma wasn’t from one of Rio de Janeiro’s prestigious universities, so finding a decent job with that résumé felt almost impossible.
At one point, I became so desperate that I genuinely started thinking the only path left for me might be becoming an online poker player.
Then, one day, out of nowhere, my father called.
“Have you ever thought of doing a master’s in Europe?” he asked.
I obviously hadn’t. I was still in debt from the university I had graduated from. A master’s in Europe was the last thing on my mind.
But he was serious about it. And a couple of months later, I found myself in London, having only three months to apply for the master’s program we chose.
Under normal circumstances, three months would have been more than enough to prepare. The problem was that I had to write ten essays for the application and score a 7.5 on the IELTS exam—when my English was still at the “the book is on the table” level.
My father was once again very generous and offered to pay for the English course. Knowing this might be my only real shot, I took it very seriously, going there every single day and spending my entire afternoons working through the exercises.
When the day of the IELTS exam finally arrived, I felt like I had done everything I could.
But it still wasn’t enough.
I got a 7.
And the skill that dragged my average down was writing.
Of all things.
I knew I would still have one last chance to take the test on the same day as my university interview. But the result hit me hard. If I couldn’t even write a decent essay for an English exam, how was I supposed to write ten essays convincing the university to accept me?
At that point, with only a month and a half left until the interview, I could already feel the fear creeping in: that I wouldn’t make it, and would end up back in Rio de Janeiro stuck in some crappy job.
After a few days feeling sorry for myself, I got my head back in the game and started questioning the approach I had been following.
When I looked more carefully at my writing, I realized the English school was teaching me to follow a rigid structure that, according to them, was the only reliable way to pass the IELTS exam.
But the more I followed that formula, the less I felt like I was actually learning how to write—or enjoying the process itself.
So I decided to do something that left my father speechless.
I quit the school and created my own daily routine for learning the language, built around two simple things.
First, I started reading every day and writing down my own thoughts about what I was reading.
Second, I took the money that had been going toward the school and used it to hire a private teacher to read my writing, give me feedback on it, and explore those thoughts together through conversation.
Rather than memorizing a rigid template for passing an exam, I was slowly learning how to think through writing itself: how to engage with ideas and express them in a way that felt natural to me.
Years later, I can see how risky that decision must have seemed at the time.
But intuitively, I knew I was doing the right thing.
Two months after submitting my essays and taking the English exam at the university, I received a letter inviting me to join the master’s program.
The kind of structure that actually helps
When I talk to writers, what I often hear is that they lack structure.
And I understand what they mean. Certain constraints can reduce the cognitive overload that comes with too much freedom, especially when the possibilities feel endless.
But the problem with many courses—including the one I took for the IELTS exam—is that they don’t give you foundational elements to build from.
They hand you a finished structure and ask you to squeeze yourself inside it.
The course wasn’t trying to teach me how to write in English. It was only trying to help me pass a test.
Now, this type of offer tends to sell well because it gives you the feeling that you’re eliminating uncertainty from the process.
I mean, if someone has supposedly figured out exactly what IELTS wants, why struggle to learn how to write when you can simply reproduce the structure that gets rewarded?
And IELTS courses are just one example.
Across the internet, in one form or another, you’ll constantly encounter the promise of a structure that “works.”
Just fill in the blanks. Follow the formula. Publish a successful piece every week.
No doubt, it’s a tempting offer.
But when your future feels like it’s on the line—as it did for me when I was applying for my master’s—you become much more sensitive to the difference between what actually helps and what merely sounds convincing.
And what I realized then was that I didn’t need a rigid structure.
I just needed a few key constraints. Some light orientation to help me find my way. And someone to exchange feedback with to keep me on track.
Little by little, I started constructing my own structure.
One that actually worked for me and made me enjoy writing.
The irony is that I originally started writing every day because I wanted to get into a master’s program.
What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was learning something far more valuable than how to pass an exam.
I was learning how to build a relationship with writing.
One that would still be with me more than a decade later.
Looking back, I’m glad I dared to pivot.
Because if I hadn’t, maybe I would have gotten into the program anyway.
But I’m not sure I’d still be writing today.
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