Accepting the attempt

Why I write a weekly essay

I write essays.

Sounds very serious right? I must be very eloquent, distinguished, and maybe some other fancy words.

Not really though.

I don’t know what I’m talking about.

And this is precisely the reason why I write a weekly essay.

A light lift

A couple of months into writing this newsletter I found myself complaining. Complaining to my writer buddies mainly, about the difficulty of the writing process. Everything felt heavy. Coming up with ideas, developing them, drafting, editing, it was all hard.

I remember sitting behind my laptop, slaving away, not being able to put one phrase after another. Why do I always choose these big, complicated topics for myself that I then have to deal with and work through? To keep this sustainable, I have to start picking lighter lifts.

This was exactly the scenario I had tried to prevent when starting to write. I had set up my weekly publishing habit with explicit constraints (read: freedoms) for myself, and I had even publicly declared them in my first ever edition.

I gave myself permission to write about anything, and not be constrained by topic choice, niche, or ‘staying in my lane’. On top of that I allowed myself to publish anything, however crappy, as long as something was published every week.

I did this because I wanted to get into the habit of writing. And with starting habits, there’s no room for quality. There’s only quantity. Finding the easiest way to get the motor running and worry about where you’re going later.

A couple of months in, I had apparently unwittingly crawled back to believing that what I publish needs to be something. And it was this unconscious focus on quality that made the process hard. But publishing quality pieces isn’t why I write, I discovered.

Thinking isn’t enough

“The first principle is that you must not fool yourself and you are the easiest person to fool.” ― Richard P. Feynman

I walk around with a head full of interesting ideas.

Because some of them have been stewing in there for years, it’s very easy and seductive to start believing they are true.

To check if they really are, they need to first escape from my brain. Out of my mouth, into the airwaves, and back into my own ears. That helps. Hearing myself say something out loud already clarifies it. I hear it right away when something I say sounds really stupid, even if it sounded awesome a moment ago in my head.

Gauging the response of the person I’m talking to is the next level up in checking if I’m full of shit or harboring a gem. Talking out loud to someone (ideally also a writer) helps me decipher wheat from chaff.

But maybe the most necessary step is writing. It’s very common for me to think I know what I’m talking about until I start writing about it. Then I finally figure out what is really going on.

Thinking and even talking can keep something vague and diffuse. The writing process is a means of clearing the fog.

Thinking, talking, drafting, feedback, editing. The whole process is basically a chain of attempts and corrections. And then, to really start the conversation, I publish.

Attempt

I love the origin of language and etymology. It so often helps to clarify things in the now. Today’s subject, the ‘essay’, is no different.

It’s obviously French. ‘Essayer’ means ‘to attempt’ and that's exactly how I would describe what I do here. The word ‘essay’ was supposedly coined and popularized by the philosopher and writer Michel de Montaigne. 

Montaigne's essays were personal reflections and explorations of an incredibly varied range of topics (from friendship to the human thumb to cannibalism). They were characterized by an informal, conversational style. He used the term ‘essai’ to describe his works because they were his attempts to explore and understand his chosen subjects.

I attempt the same.

My complaining about the heavy writing process ultimately led me to a shift in perspective; I write to clarify my own thoughts.

And funny enough, it took the heavy load off of my shoulders. 

Turns out I had it backwards. In a way, I’m looking for a heavy lift. If there’s nothing to digest, if there’s nothing to lift, I don’t need to write about it.

And if I do want to write about it, I can relax and just go through the process.

It’s just an attempt. And it’s liberating.