Writing Things Down

Writing is not easy, and it’s easier for some than others. Personally I don’t find it hard to write about things that interest me, but I know some do. Different types of writing come more naturally to different people—I find writing fiction challenging, so I rarely attempt it. Perhaps that’s an opportunity for growth rather than avoidance.

When I’m writing about a topic I’m passionate about, the words flow effortlessly. The main challenge is that my fingers can’t keep pace with my brain, so thoughts sometimes evaporate before reaching the page. They often return later, like old friends showing up unexpectedly, but not always.

As a student, I struggled with writing exercises and typically received poor grades. The rigid structure of academic writing—following strict rubrics and formulaic approaches—stifled my creativity. Essay writing required adhering to specific structures, and creative assignments demanded conventional story formats with precise word counts. Anything innovative or outside the box was discouraged.

Now, as an adult navigating the liberated landscape of the Internet and blogs, I’ve discovered that true writing has no fixed rules. This freedom applies to any creative endeavor—the only constraints are those you choose to accept.

Grammar and spelling matter, but they’re not the essence of writing, contrary to what many of us were taught in school. While technical correctness received emphasis in my education, I was fortunate to encounter a few exceptional English teachers who nurtured the creative aspects of writing. Their influence remains with me today.

This raises an interesting question: what is the most important part of writing? The answer varies depending on who’s writing, their objectives, and to some extent, their audience’s expectations. You might write purely for yourself—keeping a private journal that you never revisit—or share your thoughts widely online, potentially becoming what the internet calls a “Thought Leader.”

If you’re writing for an audience to communicate ideas, content likely takes priority. If writing for yourself, the process itself becomes paramount. Both approaches are equally valid and fulfilling in different ways.

I’ve learned far more about writing from reading than from the actual practice of writing itself. It’s similar to software development—reading and understanding others’ code teaches you more than just writing your own. Research suggests that avid readers typically become more effective writers, as exposure to diverse writing styles unconsciously shapes your own approach.

Nevertheless, you still have to do the writing. Like playing an instrument, painting, or developing any skill, you must invest the time and effort. Author Malcolm Gladwell famously proposed the 10,000-hour rule for mastery, and while the exact number may be debated, the principle holds true: consistent practice leads to improvement.

I rarely feel satisfied with my own writing. Editing my work feels tedious, and revisiting old pieces often makes me wince. Yet surprisingly, I continue to write, and people continue to read. There’s something gratifying about connecting with readers despite my self-criticism—a reminder that we’re often our own harshest critics.

Writing is challenging because it requires translating complex thoughts into words that others can not only read but understand as you intended. Effective communication is rare; many people struggle because they either don’t express their true thoughts, communicate in ways others can’t comprehend, or remain silent altogether. Others view communication as a tool for manipulation rather than genuine exchange of ideas.

The fundamental purpose of language is understanding. While we emphasize rules and structure, these elements should serve the primary goal of communicating ideas, not hinder it. I’m not suggesting grammar is irrelevant, but it shouldn’t obstruct your message. Sometimes, breaking conventions can enhance your unique voice—James Joyce’s “Ulysses” and Cormac McCarthy’s punctuation-sparse style demonstrate how “incorrect” grammar can create powerful, distinctive prose.

The beauty of writing lies in its effectiveness: if readers grasp your intended message, you’ve succeeded (assuming you want to be read at all). If you’re writing solely for the process, then simply putting words on the page is achievement enough—everything else is secondary.

I write both for the process and to communicate ideas. Often, articulating thoughts on paper (or screen) helps clarify them in my mind. Choosing precise words and constructing sentences solidifies abstract concepts into tangible form. This clarity is therapeutic—a form of catharsis and an effective method for working through complex problems or ideas, complementing verbal discussion.

Blogging about writing has admittedly become something of a cliché among online writers, so perhaps I’m contributing to that trend. But the persistence of this topic suggests there’s something universally compelling about examining the very tool we use to share our thoughts with the world.