Why I Write

Writing is how I find out what I think. It's not a record of conclusions — it's the process of reaching them.

Before I write something down, I often feel like I understand it. A hazy, comfortable sense of knowing. But when I try to put it into sentences, the haze clears and I discover I didn't understand it at all. I was just holding a vague impression of understanding, mistaking familiarity for knowledge.

This is uncomfortable. It's also, I've come to believe, the point.

The best essays I've read feel like thinking in progress. The author isn't explaining a conclusion they've already reached. They're working something out, and you get to watch. Joan Didion wrote that she didn't know what she thought until she wrote it down. I didn't believe her the first time I read that. I do now.

There's also something about writing for others that sharpens the thinking. When I write only in my own notes, I can be lazy. I know what I mean, so I don't have to say it clearly. But the moment I imagine a reader — someone who doesn't share my assumptions — I have to be precise. That precision isn't a constraint. It's a tool.

So that's why I write. Not to be read, necessarily, though that's a welcome side effect. But to see what's actually in my head when I take it out and look at it.

Most of the time, it's messier than I expected. Occasionally, it's more interesting.