The blinking cursor mocks me from the screen where my tax documents should be. Gerald, my accountant, has gone radio silent—which feels particularly cruel during tax season. I’ve called three times today, each attempt more desperate than the last. Between you and me, I’m not entirely sure what separates a 1099-MISC from a grocery list at this point.
So naturally, I’m doing what any reasonable person would do: avoiding the problem by writing about writing. Because if there’s one thing more terrifying than tax forms, it’s the blank page.
You want to write better? Join the club. We meet Tuesdays in the anxiety section of your local bookstore. Here’s the dirty little secret nobody tells you in those shiny writing masterclasses: writing is just typing with extra steps and significantly more self-loathing. It’s putting words on a page while a tiny version of yourself sits on your shoulder whispering, “Who do you think you are, anyway?”
The fancy courses and expensive books will try to convince you that good writing requires some magical talent bestowed upon a chosen few. They’re selling you a fantasy. Real writing—the kind that actually connects with people—happens in the messy space between what you want to say and what actually comes out. It’s showing up even when you feel completely unqualified to be speaking on the subject (case in point: me, right now, giving writing advice while actively avoiding adult responsibilities).
Good writing isn’t about impressing people with your vocabulary. It’s about taking the complicated mess in your head and translating it into something another human being might actually understand. It’s making peace with the fact that your first draft will probably be terrible, and that’s okay. The magic happens in the rewriting, the refining, the endless tweaking that turns confused rambling into something resembling coherence.
The truth is, we’re all just figuring it out as we go. The tax forms will wait (sorry, Gerald), but the need to communicate clearly and effectively never really goes away. Whether you’re writing an email to your team, a proposal for your boss, or just trying to explain to your partner why you absolutely need that overpriced coffee maker—the principles remain the same. Stop trying to sound important and start trying to be understood. The rest is just details.
The Uncomfortable Truth About Writing
Let’s get one thing straight right from the start: writing isn’t some mystical art form reserved for tweed-wearing intellectuals who sip expensive whiskey while pondering the meaning of existence. The dirty little secret nobody in the writing advice industry wants to admit is that writing is essentially typing with extra steps—specifically, the steps where you stare at the screen, hate everything you’ve written, question your life choices, and then eventually hit ‘publish’ while holding your breath.
I’m supposed to be doing my taxes right now. Seriously. There are receipts scattered across my desk, my accountant isn’t answering his phone (Gerald, if you’re reading this, I still don’t understand what a 1099-MISC is), and yet here I am writing about writing because sometimes avoiding adult responsibilities leads to unexpected clarity.
Here’s what those fancy masterclasses and expensive writing workshops won’t tell you: writing better doesn’t require special techniques or secret formulas. The biggest barrier to good writing isn’t lack of talent—it’s the overwhelming self-doubt that accompanies every keystroke. That voice in your head that says ‘this is terrible’ isn’t a sign you’re bad at writing; it’s proof you’re actually doing it.
The writing industry thrives on making everything more complicated than it needs to be. They want you to believe you need their systems, their frameworks, their exclusive insights. But the fundamental truth remains unchanged: writing is thinking on paper (or screen), and thinking is messy, uncertain, and often frustrating. The difference between writers and non-writers isn’t skill—it’s willingness to sit with that discomfort.
Every time you see an ad for yet another writing course promising to unlock your hidden potential, remember that the actual work of writing happens in the quiet, unglamorous moments between distractions. It’s you and the blank page, negotiating with your own limitations. There’s no hack for that process, no shortcut through the awkward phase where your words don’t yet match the vision in your head.
The commercial writing advice industry preys on our insecurity about this process. They sell certainty in an inherently uncertain craft. But the reality is that good writing emerges from embracing the uncertainty, from being willing to write badly on the way to writing well. The fancy terms and complex systems? They’re often just elaborate ways to avoid the simple, difficult work of putting one word after another while tolerating how inadequate it feels.
This isn’t to say all writing advice is worthless—but the best advice acknowledges the inherent struggle rather than pretending it doesn’t exist. The most valuable writing skill isn’t crafting perfect sentences; it’s developing the resilience to keep going when your sentences are far from perfect.
So the next time you find yourself watching another writing guru promising quick results, remember that the actual transformation happens not in consuming more advice, but in wrestling with your own words despite the self-doubt. The gap between where you are and where you want to be as a writer isn’t filled with more information—it’s bridged by consistently showing up to do the work, even when (especially when) it feels terrible.
The truth about writing isn’t sexy or marketable. It’s the acknowledgment that this work is hard for everyone, that doubt is part of the process, and that the only way through is through. The writers who eventually find their voice aren’t the ones who never struggle; they’re the ones who keep struggling forward anyway.
Stop Trying to Sound Smart
Here’s the uncomfortable truth about fancy writing: every time you choose “utilize” over “use,” you’re not elevating your language—you’re building a barrier between yourself and your reader. I used to fill my writing with phrases like “the implementation of strategic initiatives” when what I really meant was “doing stuff.” It made me feel important, like I had access to some secret professional language that ordinary people couldn’t understand.
But that’s the problem right there. When you prioritize sounding impressive over being understood, you’ve fundamentally misunderstood what writing is for. Writing isn’t about demonstrating your vocabulary or intellectual superiority. It’s about connection. It’s about taking thoughts from your mind and placing them into someone else’s with as little distortion as possible.
I learned this lesson the hard way when I submitted an article about coffee shops to a local publication. I described them as “cultivating communal spaces for caffeine-based social interaction frameworks.” The editor wrote back with a single sentence: “Are you trying to describe places where people drink coffee and talk?”
That response stung, but it also woke me up. I realized I wasn’t writing for readers—I was writing for myself, to prove something about my intelligence or education. The technical term for this is “bullshit,” and readers can smell it from the first paragraph.
People who write with unnecessary complexity usually fall into one of three categories: they’re insecure about their ideas, they’re trying to hide that they don’t really understand what they’re writing about, or they’ve forgotten that writing is ultimately an act of service to the reader. None of these are good reasons to make your writing difficult to understand.
Consider the words we often complicate unnecessarily. “Purchase” instead of “buy.” “Terminate” instead of “end.” “Facilitate” instead of “help.” Each of these choices moves the writing further from how people actually think and speak. They create distance where there should be connection.
The best writing advice I ever received came from a journalism professor who told me: “Write like you’re explaining something to a smart friend who happens to not know anything about this topic yet.” That mental shift—from performing expertise to sharing understanding—changes everything about how you approach sentences.
This doesn’t mean dumbing down your ideas or avoiding specialized terminology when it’s genuinely necessary. If you’re writing about quantum physics, you’ll need to use technical terms. But even then, the goal should be clarity, not confusion. The test is always: could an intelligent layperson understand this with reasonable effort?
Reader resentment builds quickly when people feel like you’re making things unnecessarily complicated. They’ll click away, stop reading, or—worst of all—remember your writing as difficult and unpleasant. The internet has made attention our most scarce resource, and nobody wants to spend theirs deciphering what should be simple ideas.
The irony is that simple writing often requires more work than complex writing. Anyone can hide weak ideas behind fancy language. It takes real effort and confidence to make complex ideas accessible. That’s why the clearest writers are usually the most knowledgeable—they’ve done the hard work of understanding their subject so thoroughly that they can explain it simply.
Look at the writing you admire most, whether it’s a favorite novelist, journalist, or even a blogger. Chances are, their greatness lies not in their complexity but in their clarity. They make difficult things seem easy, not easy things seem difficult.
This approach extends beyond word choice to sentence structure and organization. Long, convoluted sentences with multiple clauses and semicolons might feel sophisticated, but they often obscure meaning. Paragraphs that meander without clear focus test reader patience. Every writing choice should serve understanding.
I keep a list near my desk of phrases I’m not allowed to use anymore. “Leverage” unless I’m talking about actual physical leverage. “Synergy” under any circumstances. “Circle back” or “touch base” when I mean “talk again.” This isn’t about limiting my vocabulary—it’s about respecting my reader’s time and attention.
The most humbling moment in any writer’s journey comes when they realize that good writing isn’t about them—it’s about the person on the other side of the page or screen. Your job isn’t to impress; it’s to communicate. Everything else is vanity.
This doesn’t mean your writing can’t have personality or style. The best clear writing is full of voice and character. But that voice should feel like a real person talking, not a thesaurus vomiting words onto a page.
Next time you’re tempted to use a fancy word, ask yourself: would I say this out loud in conversation? If the answer is no, find a simpler way to say it. Your readers will thank you, even if they never consciously notice what you didn’t do.
The Reader Connection Paradox
Let’s be honest about why we’re really here. You’re not reading this because you want to become the next Shakespeare or Hemingway. You’re reading this because you want to communicate something to someone without sounding like either a robot or a complete fool. That’s the entire game right there.
Writing isn’t about building monuments to your own intelligence. It’s about building bridges to other human beings. Every time you choose a complicated word over a simple one, you’re not demonstrating your vocabulary—you’re demonstrating your fear. Fear that the reader might discover you’re not as smart as you pretend to be. Fear that your ideas aren’t strong enough to stand on their own without fancy packaging.
I learned this lesson the hard way with that coffee shop article I mentioned earlier. I filled it with phrases about “third spaces” and “community infrastructure” and “caffeine-fueled social ecosystems.” You know what my editor said? “This reads like someone trying to convince me they went to college.” Ouch. But true.
The moment I rewrote it to sound like I was actually explaining coffee shops to a friend—describing the way steam rises from espresso cups, how sunlight hits the tables in the afternoon, why people choose certain seats—that’s when it started working. That’s when people actually read it and remembered it.
Your readers aren’t sitting there with a scorecard rating how impressive your vocabulary is. They’re asking one simple question: “Do you see me? Do you understand what I need to know?”
When you write “utilize” instead of “use,” you’re answering: “No, I’m too busy trying to impress you with my word choice.”
When you write “implement strategic initiatives” instead of “do stuff,” you’re saying: “I care more about sounding managerial than being understood.”
Good writing isn’t about decoration. It’s about connection. It’s about making your reader feel smarter, not making yourself look smarter. There’s a fundamental difference there that changes everything.
Think about the last thing you read that actually stuck with you. Was it full of jargon and complex sentences? Or was it something that spoke to you like a real person? We remember writing that feels like a conversation, not a lecture.
This isn’t just about being nice to your readers either. It’s practical selfishness. Clear writing gets results. It gets read. It gets shared. It gets actions taken. Obscure writing gets deleted, ignored, or worse—misunderstood.
I’ve seen emails that took hours to write get completely ignored because they were so dense nobody could figure out what the sender actually wanted. I’ve also seen three-sentence notes that moved entire projects forward because everyone immediately understood what needed to happen.
The best writing advice I ever received came from a journalism professor who told me: “Write like you’re explaining it to your grandmother. If she wouldn’t understand it, nobody else will either.” At first I thought this was condescending—to both grandmothers and readers. Then I realized it wasn’t about intelligence at all. It was about clarity and respect.
Your grandmother (probably) loves you and wants to understand what you’re saying. She’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. But she won’t pretend to understand you if you’re speaking nonsense. She’ll ask questions. She’ll make you explain it better. She keeps you honest.
That’s what good readers do too. They approach your writing with goodwill, but they won’t struggle through it if you’re not meeting them halfway. Life is too short to decode poorly written content.
The digital age has made this even more important. Attention spans are shorter. Distractions are everywhere. If your writing doesn’t immediately show value to the reader, they’re gone. Three clicks and they’re watching cat videos instead.
This doesn’t mean you have to dumb things down. It means you have to clear things up. There’s a big difference. Complex ideas often require simple language, not complex language. The more complicated the concept, the more important it is to express it clearly.
Look at how the best scientists explain their work to non-scientists. They don’t use fewer facts—they use clearer language. They find analogies that work. They focus on what matters to the listener.
That’s your job as a writer: to be the bridge between your ideas and your reader’s understanding. Not to show off how many fancy words you know.
The beautiful paradox is that writing simply and clearly actually requires more skill, not less. Anybody can hide behind jargon and complex sentences. It takes real confidence to say something directly and clearly.
So the next time you’re writing something—an email, a report, a social media post—ask yourself: “Am I trying to impress or am I trying to communicate?” If it’s the former, delete it and start over. Your readers will thank you. And they might actually read what you wrote.
Remember: writing is a service industry. You’re in the business of helping people understand things. The moment you start writing for yourself instead of your reader, you’ve lost the plot entirely.
The Plain Language Toolkit
Let’s get practical. You’ve probably been told that good writing requires an extensive vocabulary and complex sentence structures. That’s like saying good cooking requires every spice in the market. Sometimes all you need is salt, pepper, and ingredients that actually taste good.
Start with this simple rule: if you wouldn’t say it in conversation, don’t write it. That “utilize” versus “use” example wasn’t random. It represents everything wrong with how we’ve been taught to write. Here’s a quick reference list that might save your soul:
- Instead of “facilitate” try “help” or “make easier”
- Rather than “implement” consider “do” or “put in place”
- Swap “optimize” for “improve” or “make better”
- Choose “about” over “regarding” or “with respect to”
- Use “start” instead of “commence” or “initiate”
This isn’t about dumbing down your writing. It’s about smartening up your communication. Complex ideas often require simple language to be understood. The more important your message, the clearer your words should be.
I learned this through humiliating experience. After that coffee shop article disaster, I started keeping a “bullshit detector” list. Every time I read something that made me feel stupid or confused, I’d rewrite it in plain language. The pattern became obvious: professional jargon often hides empty ideas. If you can’t explain something simply, you might not understand it well enough yourself.
Consider this: when you write “at this point in time” instead of “now,” you’re not sounding more professional. You’re sounding like someone who gets paid by the word. Your readers aren’t impressed—they’re annoyed. They have limited time and attention, and you’re wasting both with unnecessary complexity.
The magic happens when you treat writing like a conversation with someone you respect. You wouldn’t tell a friend, “I’m currently in the process of beverage consumption” when you mean “I’m drinking coffee.” That same naturalness belongs in your writing.
Simple language has power. It cuts through noise. It connects. It persuades. When you strip away the fancy packaging, your ideas have to stand on their own merit. That’s terrifying at first, then liberating.
Try this exercise: take something you’ve written recently and read it aloud. Does it sound like something a real human would say? If not, start cutting. Remove every word that doesn’t serve a purpose. Replace every fancy term with a simple one. Your writing will improve immediately.
Remember that your goal isn’t to impress with vocabulary. Your goal is to communicate with clarity. The best writing doesn’t draw attention to itself—it disappears, letting the ideas shine through.
This approach works for everything from emails to reports to social media posts. The principle remains the same: respect your reader’s time and intelligence by being clear, direct, and human.
The simplest words often carry the most weight. “Love” beats “affection.” “Home” beats “residence.” “Help” beats “assist.” We remember these words because they connect to real experiences, not because they sound impressive.
Your writing voice develops when you stop trying to sound like someone else and start sounding like yourself—just your best, clearest, most thoughtful self. That’s the writer people want to read.
The Tax Man Cometh (And So Does Clarity)
So here we are, full circle. Gerald still hasn’t called back about that 1099-MISC, and honestly? I’m starting to think maybe that’s for the best. The panic that had me staring at tax forms like they were written in ancient Sumerian has subsided into a dull acceptance that some things just need to be tackled head-on, with the tools you have, even if they feel inadequate. Writing works the same way.
We began this conversation with me avoiding adult responsibilities, and we’re ending it with perhaps the most adult writing advice there is: stop making it harder than it needs to be. The mountain of anxiety you feel looking at a blank page is the same one I felt looking at that IRS form. The solution isn’t a magic formula or a secret password into the guild of ‘real writers.’ It’s just starting. It’s accepting the self-doubt as part of the package deal and typing through it.
The core idea we’ve been kicking around isn’t revolutionary. It’s simple, almost disappointingly so. Good writing isn’t about ornamentation; it’s about communication. It’s about taking the messy, complicated thoughts in your head and translating them into something another human being can actually understand and connect with. It’s the difference between handing someone a perfectly ripe apple and handing them a blueprint of an apple printed on embossed parchment using Latin terminology for every component. One nourishes. The other just makes you look like you’re trying too hard.
This entire mess of thoughts started because I was procrastinating, but maybe that’s the perfect metaphor. We often procrastinate on writing because we’ve built it up into this monumental, sacred act. We wait for the perfect moment, the perfect inspiration, the perfect turn of phrase. We’re waiting to feel like a ‘writer.’ But that’s backwards. You don’t feel like a writer and then write. You write, and in doing so, you become one. It’s a verb before it’s a noun.
So my final, utterly un-sexy piece of advice is this: go write something terrible. Right now. Don’t wait. Open a new document or grab a napkin and write a few sentences about anything—what you had for lunch, why your accountant is ignoring you, the weird noise your car started making this morning. Write it plainly. Write it like you’d explain it to a friend. See how it feels to just… communicate. No fanfare. No ‘utilizing.’ Just words doing their job.
The tax forms aren’t going anywhere. Gerald might never call. But your ability to put a clear thought into the world? That’s entirely within your control. It’s not magic. It’s work. It’s practice. It’s occasionally hating every word you type and doing it anyway. It’s typing, but with more self-awareness than self-hatred. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a 1099 form and a strong cup of coffee. Good luck out there. Just write.
