Writing is the antidote for modern distractions—it resurrects the part of you that died when someone told you to grow up.
The hardest part of writing is always the beginning—that first line, that first idea, that first breath of truth. As I sit at my desk and think about why I write, I’ve landed on a logic that makes sense to me. Maybe it will make sense to you. And if not, maybe it’ll at least give you something worth pondering.
Writing is focus. Plain and simple.
It’s the act of taking what’s inside and giving it shape—on paper, on screen, or in any medium that will hold it.
It pulls you back from the noise. It sharpens thought. It invites your creativity to come out of hiding—from that faraway place you left it when someone first committed the sacrilegious act of telling you to “grow up.”
That’s when it started to die.
Not all at once. Slowly.
The creative spark faded under the weight of expectations and the quiet pressure to become “practical.” You were told to get a degree, get a job, buy things, chase promotions. The world dangled incentives—status, comfort, approval—and you said yes, because that’s what you were supposed to do. You traded your imagination for a catalog of things.
But those things came with distractions.
And the distractions became your routine.
Until one day, you notice your attention span has shrunk to the size of a fruit fly.
You’re just doing things—for the sake of doing.
Material things. Societal things. Other people’s expectation-things.
And slowly, you realize: this is the example you’re giving your kids.
Just like The Matrix, they’ll inherit the script.
Another generation tethered to more things.
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The Antidote
You used to read.
A lot.
Remember that?
Reading is the yin to writing’s yang.
You read to expose yourself to new ideas.
You write to express your own.
Writing is friction.
It’s a two-way conversation between the world and your thoughts.
It demands you ship—to finish, publish, and release.
As Seth Godin says, shipping means putting your work into the world even when it’s not perfect. That act alone is a form of generosity. A signal. A spark.
And when you write, you read more.
When you read more, you scroll less.
When you scroll less, you remember what it feels like to think deeply again.
Writing is how you fight back.
It’s how you pass something down. A trail of thoughts, ideas, questions—breadcrumbs for your children to find. A way for them to remember that it’s possible to resist becoming just another cog.
And maybe, just maybe, it inspires them to write too.
To think.
To create.
To resist.
Writing is a humble craft.
You give it your time, your focus, your heart—without expecting anything in return.
But maybe it matters anyway.
Maybe it makes someone pause.
Maybe it gives them permission to do the same.
And if it does, then that’s enough.