May 16, 2023
I suck at writing. I haven’t written much (hats off to the prolific among you, a la Ryoki Inuoe). As a result, I haven’t been subjected to the criticism I likely need to improve. But why does this matter? I can express myself decently. I have a decent handle on semantics and a relatively average language arts education, which should be sufficient. Right?
Subconsciously, I wrote off writing as a skill worth actively trying to improve. All the improvement I needed, if any at all, could be handled by osmosis. Besides, there are diminishing returns to the impact of your prose beyond a certain point of quality. My efforts should be pointed elsewhere. Surely, the present times call for GRINDING math, building HARD skills, and CONCRETE problem-solving.
To be clear, I don’t think all of this is true to the full extent: I recently wrote a 3,000-word spiel defending poetic expression. I think the ability to write well is important, and I have long ways to go before being near good, but I think it’s worth trying.
I’m trying to improve in true GROWTH MINDSET fashion: going from optimizing for sheer quantity to being slightly more intentional.
Frankly, I’m not inclined to become the type of writer who would win a Pulitzer (and I don’t think most aspiring writers should either). Though I’ll admit that being a popular Substack writer would be nice. Generally, the centre of my motivation comes from having a medium to convey my beliefs. I think they’re transmittable through more concrete forms in what I build and connect with people, but I’m excited about the prospect of having my stupid writing as a memento I can return to. Conditional on doing anything substantial; perhaps this extends beyond me.
It’s weird to think back to a time when I refused to write publicly. I didn’t understand the point of blogging, I was concerned with who would read it, and I felt that my stupid words would waste my time and the time of others.
What’s the point? In Holden Karnofsky’s, Learning By Writing post, he outlines his approach to developing well-reasoned takes by effectively documenting his investigations.
Have a blog, then a virtuous cycle begins where you are looking for things to write about, then getting really into some of them during the writing, which leads you to more unwritten corners of the thing. And afterward the mask of being someone interested in it eats into the face” - GLeech
Shelley reflects on the purpose of poetic expression. The age of generative AI, like Claude expanding, making tremendous leaps in capability, like Anthropic’s Claude going from 9,000 to 100,000 tokens, doesn’t conclude futility; it calls for creativity.
I'm not a Neo-Luddite nor a purist; I don’t think content generators should be exiled from the artistic process for it to remain meaningful. We can look to these tools to augment, rather than replace, human creativity and insight.
In the transition, it’s possible we lose the essence of creation; maybe the maker’s spirit diminishes and perhaps we lose sight of why the (intentional) consumption of artifacts is of intrinsic value. But I argue transience.
The punctuated equilibrium model helps us understand that we’re in yet another intense revolution. But as we progress to stasis, we temporarily return. We progress to Man with a different idea of what it means to take pride in our work.
I’m excited to accelerate my learning without sacrificing integrity, correct avoidable errors in writing (hopefully while still developing my own grammatical intuitions), develop customized learning plans, and quickly acclimate myself to new concepts.
On first takes, one could analogize that an ideal workflow is one where AI is to my work as McKinsey is to the enterprise. But I think this is pretty bad.
Arguably, one of McKinsey's functions is the one of a capital's willing executioner, glorified scapegoats for major enterprises: relieving them of the burden of responsibility. Pulling $10.5B in 2022, McKinsey’s revenue suggests that they’re maybe not essential but greatly valued. But we shouldn’t want deniable plausibility at the mercy of AI. Artistic ownership is something to grapple with as things develop. I don’t have well-formed takes, but something to think about.
A few months ago, keeping with personal tradition, I was in the valley of despair, this time with company. Haunted by the feat that is remedying my stupidity and, God forbid, trying to do anything meaningful, I rambled on. My mentor of sorts told me to just "sharpen my tools". Undeniably cracked in a way I very much wasn’t; their advice seemed too simple. What tools do I even have? Should I not try to pick some (different and technical) ones up before fine-tuning them?
Well, turns out you can simultaneously learn multiple things, and I’m not completely devoid of competence.
Though it’s nice to have a personal core curriculum—a set of tools to sharpen—mine is still in development; I don’t think it should be formally reduced to Jira tickets in the hope of transcendence. Vaguely, mine range from raw skills; writing being one of them, to developing personhood. In working through said curriculum and in things to learn more broadly, I think the “learning in public” philosophy is apposite: creating learning exhaust and “mak[ing] the thing you wish you had found when you were learning.”
The university experience seems good at executing this. I say "good" because university imposes constraints, not in an abhorrent way, as dropout fanatics might argue, but I agree effective self-directed learning is invaluable.
Now, is time spent writing for this stupid blog time wasted? Perhaps. As much as I build up this idea of my future self being able to tackle all the disparate skills on her vision board, we’re capped by time and energy.
Frankly, I’m not inclined to become the type of writer who would win a Pulitzer (and I don’t think most aspiring writers should either).
Generally, the centre of my motivation comes from having a medium to convey my beliefs. I’m excited by the prospect of having my stupid writing as a memento I can return to.
In the future, perhaps the value extends beyond me, contingent on doing something substantial.
However, writing, especially in the new approach I’ve adopted, gives me a space to think about topics that extend to more tangible projects. It provides room for creativity before doing the real stuff and forces me actually to do something, not end the week with nothing.
Having a minimum biweekly commitment is enough of an anxiety inducer that, at the very least, I can look back at a couple hundred words of output every two weeks.
My priorities for the next ten years, half-decade, even, are showing to be a slow grind. Semi-clear objectives and fingers on the keyboard are satisfying...calming even. It gives me a decent foundation to do other things. Though I don't only think a "blog" captures the essence of all of this. My bare minimum, self-imposed thing I required myself to "ship" were words, but the principle generalizes further.
It seems like working on projects, having fun, and letting exploration take reign while having something to show for it is the aim.
Pretty much all of my initial assumptions ended up being wrong. Since July, I've been trying to write something every month, and I haven't broken my rule - though many have been deleted and are private.
An anti-marketing approach would be the next step, and I’ll see what the upcoming months bring in this regard.
Regardless, I’ve gone from not caring to trying. It's been fun.
Good advice for writing better (and more):