Write more.
I want you to write more because there are things only you know and can say. Selfishly, I want to read what you write. It’ll probably feel good to write more. You’re probably better at writing than you know. You likely have more to say than you think. So, I’m going to try to convince you to write more by tackling some reasons you’re not already writing.
Reason 1: You don’t like to write.
I bet some part of you loves to write. It shows whenever you rewrite a text or rethink an email. Your clever phrases and well-chosen emojis carry that tiny creative spark that’s survived the stinging red marks and arbitrary grades you learned to associate with “writing” in school. Some part of you grins in satisfaction when you say just what you mean to say or when you find just the right words. Maybe it’s a child-like rebellion against an approach to learning modeled after a factory. The indifferent bells, long impersonal lines, and worship of efficiency and standardization do not fan the flames of freely expressing oneself. Still, some small part of you likes writing despite the trauma, despite schooling’s attempt to snuff out your love of writing with persistent, cold, and uniform pragmatism. Let’s unpack that a bit more.
Reason 2: You think writing is hard.
For most of us, writing in school meant piecing together a paper within a specific timeframe and then getting that assignment returned with an overall evaluation, often in the form of a letter grade. When it came to writing, it was hard to understand what made something “good” or “bad.” You could easily see the connection between the “correct answers” and your overall performance in math and science. In writing, not so much. Let’s be honest; it feels good to be good at something, and it’s easier to understand what it means to “be good at” math and science than to be good at writing. So, many folks who have never felt good at writing understandably conclude that “writing is hard” and that they’ll never be good at it. At best, they dismiss the subject by saying something like, “Writing’s so subjective.” At worst, they develop an eye-twitching, head-throbbing aversion to it, never knowing if their writing is “any good” at all.
Make no mistake, writing is hard. Especially writing about things that matter. Learning to write includes very few signposts beyond some shared grammatical conventions. And even those are hotly debated. But “being good at” something isn’t the only reason to do it. So what if writing is hard? Like many challenging things, it may be proportionally worthwhile. It can bear ripe and delicious fruit. It can yield uncommon clarity and calm, especially in turbulent and troubling times. It can deepen understanding, revealing subtle nuances. Writing can feel like a good workout, inducing the intellectual sweat required to shed old ways of thinking.
Imagine if your relationship with exercise followed a similar pattern to your relationship with writing. What if you decided whether to exercise based on your performance in a timed mile, the number of pull-ups you could do, or how many inches beyond your feet you could reach your hands while sitting on the floor with straightened legs. These things are all “hard,” and they measure some form of fitness, but to judge the overall value of exercise based on them alone would be incomplete to the point of naivety. Yet, that’s exactly what most have done when it comes to writing. Most stop writing after school because they judge its value and their abilities using narrowly prescribed standards.
Exercise and writing are both satisfying and life-affirming activities in and of themselves. Writing can make you feel more alive, like running, lifting, and stretching. Like running, lifting, and stretching, what qualifies as “good writing” is contextual. Honestly, it’s more important that you’re out there working out than it is that you’re good at working out. Plus, the more you do it, the better you’ll get — but again, if that’s the only reason you’re doing it, you’ll likely lose steam over time. We’re no longer limited to the forms of exercise we learned in school or to those fitness evaluations. Why would we limit ourselves to the forms of writing we learned or to that evaluation of writing? Writing outside of school, like exercise, can be so much more!
Reason 3: You’re too tired to write.
Sticking with the exercise metaphor, I can hear some of you saying, “Great, here’s another thing I’m going to feel guilty about being too tired to do.” I get it. After an exhausting day, mindless scrolling on our phones sometimes seems like all we can muster. It’s exceptionally tough to resist the seductive draw of the easy-to-digest online content that has become the habitual, infinite scrolling norm. It’s so easy to passively consume content, regardless of quality!
But ask yourself, how you have felt after an hour of mindless scrolling? It’s rarely energizing. At best, it’s numbing, providing a few moments of escape from the daily grind and incessant demands of adulting. Ideally, we look forward to exercising. It’s not a chore that we do because we feel we must. We do it because we like it and it’s good for us. Thus, it gives us energy, while many other things take it away.
Writing also nourishes, even if challenging and effortful. That may be hard to believe. If you’ve only ever written because you had to, then writing is work, and doing more work when you are already tired sounds like the opposite of what will feel good. But that’s just it. Writing, ideally, would be a form of play, just like exercise! If you’ve ever met a two-year-old, you know playing gives you more energy than it takes. Playing rejuvenates. Try writing instead of scrolling the next time you’re tired and already had a workout. Then, see how you feel. You might be surprised.
Reason 4: You don’t know what to write about.
Ok, so you’re willing to give it a try. You sit in front of your computer or notepad, pen in hand. Now what? What should you write about?
Well, you only really have two choices. Most writing is “expository” — it tries to explain something. Don’t be fooled by the seemingly rational core implied here. Expository writing requires significant creative skill, especially when done well. Plainly, try writing about what you know. Try to explain something to someone. For example, what do you do for a living? Why does it matter? What advice would you give a younger version of yourself? What’s your favorite activity? Favorite food? Favorite movie? Why? You might be surprised by how writing out your thoughts helps you better understand your point of view, which, in turn, helps you better communicate. In my experience, writing out my thoughts often makes it easier to share them with others, regardless of the medium. There’s something satisfying and calming about expository writing, like tidying up your internal room of ideas.
The “other” writing is “creative writing.” It’s not necessarily intended to explain anything, so much as it is designed to express or explore (or something else entirely). Again, don’t be fooled by the apparent lack of structure here. Some of the best creative writers have been systematic in their approach, methodically producing shockingly beautiful and timeless works. So, dive in! Write about whatever comes to mind or has been weighing on you or eating you or whatever you’ve been eating. Write the way a musician might improvise a song. Write the way an athlete might change directions mid-play. Write to describe what you’re seeing at this moment. Assume your audience is knowledgeable but has never seen precisely what you see.
For example, how might you describe what it feels like to stand in airport security to someone who has never done it? You’re not trying to explain why you’re in airport security; it’s more of an exploration of what it’s like to stand in line. It may help to consider the sensations implied. What does it smell like, for example? Is it a mixture of Dunkin’ Donuts and desperation? How about a waft of Cinnabon and sadism? Does it smell like feet and frustration? You can likely guess what it feels like for me to stand in line at airport security, but what’s it like for you?
Reason 5: You don’t want to share your writing.
I’ve saved this one for last because the rationale here is the most slippery. It reminds me of folks who don’t sing because they’re afraid someone might hear them or folks who don’t dance because they’re embarrassed someone might see them. I think this is tragic but very common and extremely understandable. Sharing what we’ve written can be scary. It opens us up to critique. After all, you’re sharing a part of yourself, which takes courage regardless of the context. You’re “putting yourself out there,” and given the past trauma associated with writing (see above), I can see why many have learned to dread it. Frankly, the only way to “unlearn” this fear of sharing seems to be to share and have a positive experience. As with any learned fear, the more positive experiences get piled on, the less dominant the negative ones. We realize that sometimes it hurts to share, but sometimes, it feels good!
Moreover, an objection to writing based on a fear of sharing points towards something more fundamental about our relationship with writing. Unlike singing and dancing, writing is a functional tool in our daily lives. So much so that to some, if you’re not going to share what you’ve written, there’s no point in writing it. It’d be as if we lived in a musical, where to convey an idea, you must sing it. If that were the case, it could be a preconception of the purpose of singing itself that would result in us limiting singing to an “as needed” basis. We’d only sing when we had to, just like we currently do with writing.
Put another way, many people think the primary purpose of writing is to communicate with another person. So, we limit our writing to when we need to write something to someone. This makes it dull and often tedious. There’s nothing fun about it. It’s just necessary. It’s not an outlet or an opportunity for creative expression. It is a laborious, continuous chore.
But you -can- write just for fun. You can write for yourself, to yourself. Write because it feels good and is good for you, a combination that’s becoming more difficult to find. You can write privately — without ever sharing what you’ve written. To come back to the exercise metaphor, you no more need to share what you’ve written than you need to video and share your workouts. Frankly, don’t share if you’d rather not, especially if the thought of sharing squelches any possibility of you picking up your pen in the first place. Similarly, you can sing in the shower and dance when no one’s looking. Unfortunately, that means the opportunities to sing, dance, and write are much more limited.
Ultimately, whether you want to share what you write is your decision. But if you decide to share, I think you’ll be surprised at how it creates opportunities to connect with others. Even if you’re not necessarily writing directly to someone, reading someone else’s writing gives you a remarkable insight into that person’s inner world. It’s intimate. If you know the person, you can hear their voice in your head. Their inner world becomes a part of your inner world, almost literally.
Like I said, I want you to write more because there are things only you know and can say. I want to read what you write. It’ll probably feel good to write more. You’re probably better at writing than you know. You likely have more to say than you think.
Let’s connect! It’ll be fun!
