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Writing is an escape. I get an idea and start writing, forcing myself to carry on I have to stop. The moment I think too much about what I’m doing, I panic and overthink the sentences, structure, ideas, and end up scrapping everything I’ve done.
All of my posts started off as a stream of consciousness. I didn’t struggle to write them because I just switched off and tried to get everything that was in my head onto paper, no matter the format.
I don’t want to forget anything, so I jot everything down into a disorganised mess of structure, sentences, and lists. This doesn’t matter, the idea is down and I can make sense of it later.
There are two instances when I struggle to write: when I overthink something, and when I get paid to do it.
## Overthinking It
Overthinking anything is a problem. Overthinking leads to bad ideas and is a waste of time. If I think too hard about writing, nothing happens. I try to formulate a perfect post. I try and write in an elegant manner first time around and get frustrated at myself. Shit doesn’t work like that.
I’m a designer. I don’t sit down and design something great first time. I sketch, come up with concepts, iterate, reorganise the hierarchy, and more. I do the same thing with writing too. Here’s how this post came to be:
- Had an idea, opened up my laptop (let’s not kid it’s been open all day)
- Wrote down everything I could possibly think of in Notes.app
- Rewrote a bunch of it.
- Pasted it into Medium.
- Started the process of rewriting the entire thing (see revisions).
It might seem convoluted, but it works for me. When I hit publish I’ll go full-on Kanye West and edit it even after I’ve shared it.
The moment I get paid to do something I love, I hate doing it. When I start getting paid, my pursuits of happiness become pursuits of money and I want none of it. It happened with front-end development and the same is true of when I write.
I write for myself because there are no restrictions. I don’t have someone emailing me reminding me that there’s a deadline. I can finish writing it tonight or tomorrow, and I can even scrap it if I want to.
The freedom of exploration and experimentation I’m granted when doing things for myself just don’t exist when somebody is paying me to do it. I’ve made the mistake of accepting money for this in the past, and I will never do it again, no matter the amount (unless it’s more than £10,000, I’m not a fucking idiot).
## One Thing I Love: Editing
I love the stream of consciousness, but I take great joy in editing what I’ve written. I rewrite and rearrange things multiple times before I publish them, and love it when the flow feels right.
I liken getting it right to visual harmony in design. It’s hard to describe, but when everything clicks into place it is nice. Sentences and paragraphs are digestible lengths, and useless adverbs and hyperbole have been stripped from the text. It be like it is because it do.
I don’t ask for too much feedback otherwise it becomes their post and not mind. Instead I respond to what people who read it say.
When I pick up a book about design, read a blog post about user testing, or even read a film review in Little White Lies, it’s like a punch to the face from a dull dissertation.
The average reading age in post countries sits at around 10 years old, yet people are writing things that seem to be aimed at the intelligentsia of the Western World.
Here’s an excerpt of a review for a movie aimed at 4 year olds (Ice Age: Collision Course):
Even when it comes to conventions, the rote option is always deemed best. A climactic sing-a-long is faded out after barely a minute, as even the makers clearly realise that another happy-clappy dance montage is no fun for anyone. One thematic mainstay the film picks up (and which has spread far beyond the Ice Age franchise) is a fixation with faecal matter.
Please don’t write like this. It’s self-centred and egotistical to think anyone reading the review care for these complicated sentences. Write for people, not yourself.