We should write because thought is slippery—like ink on water, like footprints in the tide. It disappears if we don’t press it into something solid. Memory is a poor keeper of ideas; it frays, it edits, it lies.
And we should show our work because what good is a map if no one sees it? Every sentence we write is a breadcrumb on a path we didn’t know we were walking. Maybe someone else is lost in the same woods. Maybe they need to know someone was here before them.
The world isn’t suffering from a lack of brilliance—it’s suffering from hesitation, from hands that won’t lift the pen, from minds that hoard their own light.
Perfection is a myth told by those too afraid to begin. So write. Show. Let it be raw. Let it be real. Let it be seen.
We should write because thought is slippery—like ink on water, like footprints in the tide. It disappears if we don’t press it into something solid. Memory is a poor keeper of ideas; it frays, it edits, it lies.
And we should show our work because what good is a map if no one sees it? Every sentence we write is a breadcrumb on a path we didn’t know we were walking. Maybe someone else is lost in the same woods. Maybe they need to know someone was here before them.
The world isn’t suffering from a lack of brilliance—it’s suffering from hesitation, from hands that won’t lift the pen, from minds that hoard their own light.
Perfection is a myth told by those too afraid to begin. So write. Show. Let it be raw. Let it be real. Let it be seen.
