As more social media metrics define the worth of my words, I am in danger of reducing writing to impressing rather than expressing. In the competitive internet arena, a desire to shine and shimmer can overwhelm the aim of self-expression. This elusive landscaping of the writer’s mind, or shines with some emotional brightness or usefulness, is generally written unaffectedly, like the cries and exclamations that come before language or the first embryonic language used by young children.
The most effective kind of writing isn’t created for but comes out of sincerity.
Writing directs our attention away from the content of our message.
It encourages us to show off using obscure words, employing clunky sentences, or trying to sound sophisticated. If we write for effect, we can wow people for a few minutes, but not very long.
In contrast, there’s writing to service that prioritizes clarity, authenticity, or emotional weight — in other words, aims other than impressing others through virtuosity, erudition, or style. In that state, we’re more interested in sharing our experiences, thinking things through for ourselves, and, sometimes, taking a position on some cause: seeking connection, which on the page often means communicating sincerely and effectively.
This is one of the power relations of writing to express — we seek to connect in reading to those who are making themselves vulnerable to one of the most observable human experiences: trying to say something. As we let go of the strategies that seek recognition and impress, we open to vulnerability and empathy from our readers. They can see through the pressures and ancient macho rituals of trying to impress and are much more likely to recognize and identify with us outside these cul-de-sacs of narcissism and threats.
Unburdening ourselves and others through writing-to-express is also a form of authorial liberation: when we speak from the heart without concern for polish or poetic cadence, when we draw from our authentic selves and speak without trying to edit our souls, when we stop filtering our joy and bitterness through a Wm Word-filter, we too are released from the shackles of the damned comparative — myself-confined-to-my-self. We improve our fluency. Instead of worrying endlessly about judgment, of how my words will be perceived and received, how I will be judged to my future by those surrounding me, how this will affect them and their expectations, how they will judge me as a conduit, how they will view what I have not said because I refuse to censor –ing and reworking and sharing with the closest circle of trusted loved ones who will tell me yes than no, then yes but maybe not, and so it goes — instead, I can open myself up in a much deeper and more expansive way. If I can escape the confines of copia — myself-confined-to-my-self — then I speak from a new platform, completely unfiltered. I allow myself to be voiced, and then, trusting others as they trust in unpolished nature, she and others will listen.
Indeed, this is not to say that writing to think requires neglecting or even disdaining craft. Effective writing still requires thought and care: It must be clear and specific, well-chosen and well-ordered, and sensitive to how audience members are likely to react to its words and images. But ideally, those traits are subservient to the goal of joining rather than being the goal in itself.
In a world that too often places style over substance, writing to express is a powerful antidote: it reminds us of the lasting power of authenticity.
When we place those authentic emotions on the page, vulnerability becomes visceral, and courage becomes contagious when we take a chance and share those truths with others. When we write that way, we write to impress—and ourselves. If you can do that, the writing becomes inevitable.
The next time you write, remember: Write to express, not to impress.