Tahsin Khan

I'm Not Sure That I Like Writing. But, I'm Sure That I Must.


The moment I accepted that no one may ever read my writing was the moment I finally began to write.

Let me explain why.

First, I doubted anyone would read my work. And if no one reads it, then why bother?

This doubt kept my fingers off the keyboard and my thoughts trapped in my mind.

In an era of AI-generated content, adding my voice seemed futile. Why start now when AI is churning out infinite content? That seems foolish.

Quality writing takes time. If no one reads my sh*t, and there's no scarcity of written content, what's the point?

Then I had a realization.

Worthwhile writing doesn’t have to dazzle millions of readers or build a massive following.

Sure, that would be nice. It's probably a worthy goal. But it's also daunting and creates a lot of pressure to:

But, what if I focus on writing for myself? What if it's about something more personal, more transformative?

Suddenly, those reservations don't hold as much weight.

I'm not saying they disappear completely. I am human, and I have some desire to be validated, understood, and admired. But, it's not the main point anymore.

What I uncovered was simpler, yet unexpectedly liberating.

This is the story of how I discovered the power of writing for an audience of one - myself. It led me to distill my decision to start writing into four reasons.

1. Writing exposes flaws in our thinking by forcing us to organize chaotic thoughts into coherent ideas

The ultimate lie detector for your thoughts is clear writing.

Weekly, I absorb various media—essays, podcasts, and books—that blend in my mind, creating a rich but chaotic mix of ideas. This fusion sparks intriguing thoughts, nudging me closer to fundamental truths, albeit in a disorganized manner.

Without an outlet to process and synthesize these inputs, my thinking remains fragmented and opaque.

Writing forces me to de-convolute these ideas, clarifying my perspective and exposing the true depth (or lack thereof) of my understanding. It transforms the tangled mess in my mind into clearer, coherent insights.

It's easy to convince myself that I "get" an idea when it's just a hazy impression. But when forced to express it in writing, the weaknesses become apparent. Sloppy logic, unsubstantiated assumptions, and contradictory beliefs are laid bare.

Clear, concise writing reflects clear thinking. It’s the ultimate litmus test for quality of thinking.

How do you know if you understand an idea? You write about it.

Writing silences the chaos in my mind and manages my relentless internal dialogue. It untangles crowded mental clutter and preserves my sanity.

In essence, it becomes both a mirror and a chisel for our thoughts - reflecting their present state and shaping them into something more refined. It's not just about transcribing pre-formed thoughts; it's about actively sculpting them.

As Paul Graham, founder of Y Combinator, says:

Writing is not just a way to convey ideas, but also a way to have them. A good writer doesn't just think, and then write down what he thought, as a sort of transcript. A good writer will almost always discover new things in the process of writing…There is a kind of thinking that can only be done by writing.

I recently sat down to write a business proposal for an idea I'd been mulling over. I say 'grudgingly' because, let's be frank, who enjoys writing business plans? They seemed like a pointless exercise to pretend you know more about your business than you actually do, only to be proven wrong when you start executing the 'plan'.

But as I started writing, something unexpected happened. The vague, exciting idea in my head began to crumble under the weight of specifics demanded by the proposal. Questions I'd been ignoring demanded answers. It was frustrating and uncomfortable.

Just a week after finishing this 'final' 30-page document, my perspective shifted. New ideas bubbled up. Connections I hadn't seen before became clear. Suddenly, large chunks of my proposal felt outdated, even misguided. I shifted the business plan entirely.

Initially, I was annoyed. Was all that work for nothing?

Then I realized - this was the point. The value wasn't in the document, but in the mental gymnastics it forced me to endure. It pushed my thinking further and faster than endless 'brainstorming' could.

While my original proposal now gathers digital dust, the exercise was far from futile. It propelled my business idea forward, exposing flaws and sparking innovations I might have missed.

Why does this happen?

I don’t have the correct answer, but I can offer a hypothesis.

Writing forces us to slow down. When we try to put words to paper, we're confronted with the reality that our ideas aren't as coherent as we thought. That we don't really understand them deeply.

The struggle of articulating our thoughts forces us to question our assumptions, make new connections, and ultimately, understand our ideas more deeply.

As Paul Graham states:

There are of course kinds of thinking that can be done without writing…If you're thinking about how two pieces of machinery should fit together, writing about it probably won't help much. But if you need to solve a complicated, ill-defined problem, it will almost always help to write about it. Which in turn means that someone who's not good at writing will almost always be at a disadvantage in solving such problems. People who just want information may find other ways to get it. But people who want to have ideas can't afford to.

The concept can be summarized as:

I don’t write because I think. I write so that I can think.

Writing forces clarity and ideas, but its benefits don’t end there. The act of putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) is also a powerful tool for learning and retention.

2. Writing reinforces knowledge through spaced repetition

How often have you finished a book, essay, newsletter, or podcast feeling inspired with newfound epiphany, only to struggle recalling its key points a week later?

How much of it leads to transformative changes in behaviour or decision-making?

It's a frustrating cycle: read, get excited, do nothing, forget, repeat.

I used to be a knowledge junkie. Now, I'm in recovery. I wasted years fooling myself into thinking I was learning, when I was just consuming.

For years, I voraciously consumed information from books, podcasts, and newsletters. After finishing each piece, I'd feel like I had unlocked some profound wisdom. "This is it," I'd think, "This is the insight I've been looking for." But... nothing would change. The "revelations" that seemed so transformative would slip away, leaving me with vague impressions at best.

Does that sound familiar?

Here's the uncomfortable truth: we fool ourselves into thinking we're learning when we're merely consuming. It's easy, enjoyable, and gives us the illusion of progress. We feel smart and informed. But are we really learning if our behaviour and thinking remain unchanged?

Real learning demands active engagement, deep reflection, and application. Most of us falter there.

Why?

Because it's hard work.

It's easier to highlight a passage in a book or nod along to a podcast than to wrestle with how these ideas apply to our lives. Writing about what we've learned, articulating it in our own words, considering its implications – that's effortful, time-consuming, and frustrating.

But without this effort, we're fooling ourselves. We're mistaking information for knowledge and confusing exposure for insight. We're filling our heads with ideas that never lead to action.

Writing is not just a transcription tool. It is a catalyst that forces us to slow down and engage with the material.

The process goes like this:

  1. Consuming Ideas (via essays, podcasts, books)
  2. Reflection (First Exposure)
    a. Initial Formation of Understanding, ideas begin to take shape, new ones emerge.
  3. Writing (Second Exposure)
    a. Organizing, contemplating, and articulating thoughts.
  4. Improved Clarity (Third Exposure)
    a. Thoughts de-convolute, ideas become clearer, better understanding of concepts.
  5. Editing (Multiple Exposures)
    a. First Revision → Second Revision → Third Revision…
  6. Sharing/Discussing (Additional Exposure)
  7. Deeper Understanding
  8. Better Decisions
    a. As ideas clarify, the quality of our decisions improves.

This process creates a natural spaced repetition. Each step provides a new opportunity to engage with and deepen understanding of the ideas.

This insight was inspired by David Perell's essay 'Against 3x Speed,' which highlights how writing creates multiple exposures to information, enhancing understanding and retention. Building on Perell's idea, I've found that this process creates a powerful learning cycle.

You encounter an idea when you first read it, then reflect on it, organize it in your mind, and write about it. Each engagement deepens your understanding and strengthens memory.

This process isn't always smooth or enjoyable, but the struggle creates the opportunity for consolidation. It also creates a tangible record of our journey, letting us revisit ideas and track our evolving thinking.

Now, when I read, I force myself to write down the key ideas, how they connect to what I already know, and how they might change my approach to life.

Yes, it's more work.

Yes, it's less immediately gratifying than breezing through another book or podcast.

But, I don’t know a better way. The goal is to actually learn and remember, not to fool myself into believing that learning has taken place when it hasn’t.

Learning isn’t linear, but fragmented. There are many side thoughts and threads that lead away from your main subject, either pointing nowhere or looping back to give you clarity and context.

As David Perell puts it, writing becomes both a test and a tool for deeper comprehension.

Beyond its cognitive benefits, writing satisfies a fundamental need...

4. The urge to create

The act of creation is powerful, and for me, writing satisfies this itch.

It's not just about putting words on a page. It's about crafting ideas, shaping perspectives, and building a tangible representation of my thoughts.

Codie Sanchez puts it this way:

Bliss isn't found in drugs or excess, in sex, in escaping...it's found in creating. Once you've tasted that drug, nothing else will satisfy you. You'll be a hunter in search of your prey. Everything else is a shiny distraction.

Creation is the essence of our existence, whether through writing, coding, engineering, or any other expression.

For me, this creative impulse manifests in two forms: photography and writing. Both are tools for capturing and expressing my perspective, but they serve complementary purposes.

Photography trains my eye to notice overlooked details, freezing fleeting moments into visual stories. Through the lens, I interpret the tangible world, saying “this is what I find interesting.”

Writing sharpens my ability to spot connections in my thoughts. It's a medium for capturing and expressing the intangible - ideas, concepts, and insights that can't be photographed. Where my camera freezes physical moments, my writing crystallizes abstract thoughts.

Both push me to be more present and observant, engaging with my surroundings and inner landscape with intentionality. Whether behind the lens or at the keyboard, I'm satisfying the same creative itch - not just passively consuming, but actively shaping, interpreting, and creating.

Creating provides a unique gratification that's hard to replicate. It's a form of self-expression that goes beyond mere documentation – it's an interpretation, a way of saying "this is how I see things."

Photography has trained my eye to notice details and compositions I might overlook, while writing forces me to organize my thoughts and see connections I might have missed.

This creative impulse extends beyond writing and photography.

I'm probably drawn to entrepreneurial pursuits for similar reasons. It's another avenue for creating something that reflects my viewpoint, sharing it, and ideally providing value. There's a profound satisfaction in owning your creation, be it a business, a piece of writing, or a photograph.

This leads to the question: why not just privately journal? Why publish online?

4. Writing increases the surface area for serendipity

The personal benefits of writing are significant, but there's a compelling reason to share our work publicly: it increases opportunities for serendipitous connections.

In a noisy world, I write to signal my wavelength to those who might be listening. I do this not to reach everyone, but to attract the few who resonate with my ideas.

While private journaling has its merits, publishing online creates more opportunities. There are many reasons to share your writing publicly - building an audience and growing a side-business are common ones. While I have those aspirations, my primary motivation is to increase the surface area for serendipitous connections.

In “Show Your Work,” Austin Kleon argues that an “artist” doesn’t need to self-promote, but create conditions for their work to be findable. The best approach is to generously share your work and process, especially since it is easily doable for anyone.

I'm not an artist, but I believe in the value of sharing one's process. This aligns with the "build in public" approach some entrepreneurs adopt.

It involves revealing my thoughts, deliberations, and how I navigate problems. This transparency is more valuable than past achievements or experiences. It allows us to connect with like-minded individuals who resonate with our approach.

Andrew Chen, a partner at a16z, published a fantastic piece advocating for creating assets that spread over time.

Find leverage. Create work assets that compound over time so that it spreads even when you sleep. Maybe this is a project you’ve put out into the world, and customers can find it and share it. Or it’s a series of videos or essays that grow in audience over time, and each new bit content builds upon the last.

The benefit is it can lead to opportunities that change my trajectory just because someone connects with my cadence.

This is the same approach that let Andrew Chen be discovered by Marc Andreessen and land a partnership at a16z in 2007.

I moved to the Bay Area in 2007, as a first-time founder with a lot of energy and a lot of questions. I spent the first year meeting everyone I could, reading everything about tech, and writing down all that I was learning. A few months in, I was shocked to get a cold email from Marc introducing himself. Who knew that sort of thing happened? My blog was pretty much anonymous and I could be anyone – but he reached out to talk ideas, which made a big impression.

I aspire to build businesses and capitalize on niche opportunities at the frontiers of innovation - areas that are often hidden and evolving. By sharing my work and thought processes online, I'm not just documenting my journey. I'm creating opportunities for unexpected connections.

I'm sharing my knowledge while signaling my interests and thought processes. It's a way to attract like-minded individuals who can push my thinking, potential collaborators for future ventures, and insights into emerging opportunities I might not otherwise discover.

I'm using my writing as a beacon to attract collaborators, mentors, and potential partners who can help me navigate these changing frontiers.

Where does that leave me?

Despite the aforementioned reasons, I msut admit, there is always some level of ego-driven need to share and be understood. Knowing that everything I share is subject to public scrutiny leaves little room to hide. This, will force me to understand things well and avoid a myopic perspective.

I have outlined some expectations for myself:

These expectations set a high bar, and I acknowledge that meeting them consistently will be challenging. As Nat Eliason points out in his essay "How To Be Reasonably Hard on Yourself," improvement in writing is often incremental and requires embracing imperfection. This resonates with my experience.

I will probably never be satisfied with anything I publish. There will always be a nagging feeling that "this could be better." However, this is true for all creative endeavours. There's no such thing as a flawless work; at some point, we must declare it "good enough" and release it.

Publishing will force me to confront this discomfort.

It's tempting to keep my work confined to private memos, deeming it unworthy for the public sphere. Yet, I want to become more comfortable with the inevitable feeling of inadequacy, accepting that each piece is "good enough" for now, knowing the next will be better.

I don't always enjoy the process, but I've come to see writing as an indispensable tool for transforming convoluted thinking into actionable insights. It's not merely a task to enjoy or dislike, but a necessity that enables me to make sense of the world and my place in it.

It's a discipline I'm open to embrace.


Reflections