Write About Writing

I like to write, and sometimes I like to write about writing. It’s a bit like the artist who teaches art, rather than practicing it. But I think there’s value in it, and I hope you do too.

Like any creative endeavor, it’s worth taking a step back to examine the process—why you do a thing, and how you do it. Should you continue? Are you doing it well? Are you doing it for the right reasons? Are you producing the work you want to produce, or is it a half-hearted attempt at something else? Are you doing it for yourself, or for others? To make money, or to make a difference?

Writing things down is a good way to get started. What you write sometimes doesn’t matter as much as simply the act of doing. On the day Van Gogh painted Starry Night, he probably didn’t wake up and say, “Today I will paint a masterpiece!” More likely, he woke up and thought, “Today I will paint.” And so he did.

Let’s not kid ourselves—I’m no Van Gogh, nor do I care to be. The catharsis of writing is enough for me, along with the occasional email from a reader who enjoyed something I wrote. That’s enough to keep me going.

One tough part of writing is that you have to actually do it. You can’t just think about it, talk about it, or read about it. You have to sit down and write. Figuring out what to write is often the hardest part. Sometimes the best approach is to just start writing and see where it takes you. You can always edit later. It’s fine to start in one direction, turn around, then turn around again, and go in a completely different direction after that.

There’s only one rule in writing: you must write. You can write about anything, in any style, and in any format you want. You don’t need to worry about who reads it, or if anyone reads it at all. You don’t need to concern yourself with what readers might think, or how they may criticize or praise your work. Those who enjoy what you write will enjoy it, and those who don’t will move on. The ones who don’t enjoy it will (if they have the courage) stop reading, making it a self-selecting process. The ones who do enjoy it will keep reading, and perhaps even share it with others.

So much of what we do is ego-driven, and writing is no exception. We want to be read, heard, and understood. We want praise, attention, validation, and love. Many people dream of becoming someone special, perhaps someone remembered long after they’re gone. But I think you’ll find artists like Van Gogh weren’t terribly concerned with fame. He painted because he loved to paint, and while he tried to sell his work to earn a living, he never actually succeeded at that. He painted what he wanted to paint. He didn’t care if anyone else liked or understood it. He painted for himself, he painted himself—he poured himself into his art. That’s what made him happy, or perhaps what ultimately killed him.

We love stories like Van Gogh’s because, in some way, we all feel like misunderstood creators seeking connection. We write, we paint, we create—hoping to express our authentic selves, forge connections with others, and perhaps find deeper meaning in our lives. There’s a universal desire to leave a mark, to be remembered. Yet the reality is that most of us won’t achieve fame or wide recognition for our creative work. Few will have their writing celebrated broadly or earn their living solely through their art. And that’s perfectly fine. Write because it fulfills you, because the act itself brings clarity or joy—not for external validation. When you release expectations about outcomes, you free yourself to create what truly matters to you.