Most advice about writing focuses on productivity—word counts, streaks, systems. But writing, at its core, is an act of attention long before it becomes an act of production.
To write is to sit with a thought longer than usual. To resist the urge to scroll past it. To ask it questions. To follow it into corners you wouldn’t normally bother exploring.
Good writing doesn’t come from having better ideas. It comes from paying better attention to ordinary ones.
This is why writing often feels clarifying even when no one else reads it. The value isn’t in publishing—it’s in the sustained noticing. The way language forces you to choose one word instead of five vague ones. The way sentences expose gaps in your thinking you didn’t know were there.
Writing is less about saying something impressive and more about seeing something clearly. Everything else is secondary.