On Writing to Think
Many successful intellectuals mention a consistent writing schedule[^1] as an integral part of their daily routine and their success. I always found this a bit weird - there’s something surprising about the notion that to learn, you need to sit in solitude, with no outside interaction, and put words on paper (or screen). If this is the case, why couldn’t we just “know it”? Why do we need this whole ordeal of being alone and thinking?
I know how naive this sounds. You can immediately think of plenty of reasons:
- The act of writing requires us to structure loose thoughts into coherent arguments, find logical holes in our reasoning and make explicit connections in ideas we have.
- Writing creates a feedback loop with our thinking. When we give our thoughts exact form and content, we can critique them objectively, refine them, and build upon them in ways purely mental reflection doesn’t allow.
- Our brains have limited working memory. Writing acts as an “external hard drive” letting us offload and manipulate more complex thoughts than we could hold in our heads alone.
- Writing isn’t just recording what we already know – it’s a tool for discovery. As Joan Didion famously said, “I don’t know what I think until I write it down.”
- The solitude aspect is actually a feature, not a bug. When we’re constantly consuming information and interacting, we’re in a reactive mode. Writing forces us to switch to a generative mode where we actively construct meaning.
All these reasons handle the “how” - they are surface-level explanations listing benefits one could expect from the painstakingly challenging act of regular writing. However, this post attempts to answer the “why”: why does this simple act allow us to achieve all these goals?
The Core Properties of Writing
I’ve started developing an insight into what differentiates writing from other pastimes. Two distinct properties stand out:
- Having a title and “end goal” forces singular focus
- Solitude eliminates the need to explain obvious points, enabling flow state until you reach the frontier of your crystallized thoughts
Writing as Meditation
The first point frames writing as a special form of meditation. Like a first-time meditator recognizing the challenge of maintaining focus, the words on your screen act as an anchor. They stare back when your mind wanders, saying “hey come back, our work here isn’t done.” This is crucial when you’re stuck - exactly when you need to power through.
The Power of Solitude
While deep conversations with friends might seem equivalent, writing holds an advantage for knowledge distillation. In conversation, you aren’t solely responsible for direction. Even an attentive listener will want to explore tangents you might find obvious or irrelevant to your goal. Writing’s solitude keeps the process linear.
Two Modes of Intellectual Development
This exploration has revealed an important distinction:
Writing as Directed Navigation
Like taking a deliberate walk with a destination in mind. Strengths:
- Forces resolution of conceptual problems
- Creates coherent, linear arguments
- Crystallizes existing thoughts
Limitations:
- Rarely produces truly novel discoveries
- Typically refines rather than generates
- Conclusions often align with initial hypotheses
Conversation as Exploratory Navigation
More like wandering with a companion. Benefits:
- Frequent unexpected insights
- Natural exploration of tangential ideas
- Exposure to different perspectives
The metaphor of navigation serves us well: writing is using a map and compass to reach a specific destination, while conversation is exploring new territory with a fellow adventurer, guided by curiosity and opportunity.
Like taking a deliberate walk with a destination in mind - similar to how a continuous function in a topological space must follow a connected path.