Write About Writing

I like to write, and sometimes I like to write about writing. There’s a touch of irony here—similar to artists who teach because they can’t sustain themselves solely through their art. In my case, I’m neither successful enough to earn a living from my writing nor from teaching it, but I genuinely enjoy both activities nonetheless. Writing about it helps me see what I’m actually doing instead of what I tell myself I’m doing.

The Value of Creative Self-Examination #

Every so often I need to step back and look at why I’m doing this, how I’m doing it, and whether it still feels real. Am I creating what actually matters to me? Is this an honest expression or a half-hearted attempt at something else? Am I doing it for myself, for other people, for money, or to make a difference?

Writing things down is where I usually start. What you write sometimes matters less than simply engaging in the act itself. When Van Gogh painted Starry Night, he likely didn’t wake up thinking, “Today I will create a masterpiece!” More probably, he simply thought, “Today I will paint.” And so he did.

Let’s not kid ourselves—I’m no Van Gogh, nor do I aspire to be (or maybe I secretly do but I’m not admitting it). The catharsis of writing satisfies me, along with occasional notes from readers who connected with something I wrote. That’s enough to keep me going.

The Challenge of Actually Writing #

The challenging part of writing is that you must actually do it. You can’t just think about it, talk about it, or read about it. You have to sit down and write. Determining what to write often proves most difficult. Sometimes the best approach is simply starting and seeing where your thoughts lead. You can always edit later. It’s perfectly fine to begin in one direction, change course, and then veer somewhere entirely different. I frequently go back and rewrite things I’ve written (like this post), but I rarely delete anything. Usually I add to it, sharpen my thoughts, and make it better.

There is no try, only do.

— Yoda, I think 🤔

Many people talk enthusiastically about writing their memoirs, novels, blogs, or other projects, but they stumble at the most fundamental step: they never actually write. They may have brilliant ideas, but if the pages stay blank, the ideas don’t do much. An idea by itself typically has no monetary value—it becomes valuable only when transformed into something tangible. Until you turn it into something another person can actually read or use, it’s still just an idea.

The Simple Rule of Writing #

Writing has just one fundamental rule: you must write. You can explore any topic, in any style, using any format you choose. Don’t worry about your audience size or reception. Some people will stick around and some won’t. The readers who enjoy your perspective will continue reading and might even share it with others.

Finding Meaning Beyond Recognition #

Much of human behavior, including writing, stems from ego-driven desires. I want to be understood, and if I’m being honest, I like the praise too. Many dream of becoming extraordinary—perhaps even remembered long after they’re gone. Yet artists like Van Gogh weren’t primarily concerned with fame. He painted because he loved painting, and though he attempted to sell his work to support himself, he never succeeded during his lifetime. He painted what moved him, unconcerned with others’ understanding or approval. He poured himself into his art—which brought him fulfillment but perhaps also contributed to his struggles.

You should kill your ego, if possible. It’s a terrible master.

Van Gogh sticks with me because it’s hard not to see a little of yourself in someone making work with no guarantee anyone will care. We write, paint, and make things hoping to say something true and maybe reach another person. While we might desire recognition, the reality is that most creative work never receives widespread acclaim. Few writers achieve celebrity status or support themselves solely through their art—and that’s perfectly fine. Write because it does something for you, because the process brings clarity or joy, not because you expect applause. The work feels better when I’m not trying to force it into proving anything.