when i reread what i’ve written, i feel like i’m swallowing my own vomit
tips on writing (and an attempt to take my own advice)
hello.
when i reread what i’ve written, i feel like i’m swallowing my own vomit. -clarice lispector
i can’t tell you how many essays i’ve abandoned halfway through. half written, half hated, left to rot in the trash bin of my computer. the hardest part of writing isn’t the blank page staring back at you, it’s rereading what you’ve filled it with. revising, editing, dissecting your own voice until it sounds bearable enough to release out into the ether, and even then, you still cringe at the words before you hit publish.
i think that’s why writing advice always feels slippery. the struggle isn’t universal because it changes shape depending on what you’re trying to create. a poem needs precision, a short story needs structure, nonfiction needs trust, essays rely on rhythm.
but the truth is, most writing problems start when you stop paying attention and rush through a moments instead of studying them. writer’s block isn’t a lack of ideas, it’s a lack of observation. start describing what’s in front of you until something clicks. the light on the wall, the sound of the radiator, the way your coffee tastes today. that’s where writing begins. not in brilliance for the sake of sounding profound, but in noticing.
so as i’ve embarked on this journey of writing my first book, i’ve gathered some “tips” and gentle reminders that have helped me along the way. hopefully they will help get your attention back long enough to start seeing clearly again.
1. write toward the sentence that scares you
every piece has that one line that feels too revealing or too close to what you meant to keep hidden. this could also be the sentence you cringe at. it’s usually the moment you start typing slower, hovering over the delete key, wondering if you’ve gone too far. that’s the line you need to write toward, because that’s where the pulse is. if you feel blocked, it’s often because you’re orbiting that sentence instead of letting yourself touch it. even if it feels wrong, write it anyway. you can soften it later if you need to, but that moment of unease is where something real begins.
2. clarity is not the enemy of depth
writers often mistake confusion for complexity, as if making something hard to follow makes it profound. this is where i’ve struggled a lot because of my own insecurities and imposter syndrome. we want to sound smart. but clarity is precision. say what you mean, then say it more cleanly, until every unnecessary word falls away and only the truth remains. when you can’t write something clearly, it usually means you don’t understand it yet, and that’s fine. writing is the process of finding out what you think and carving sense out of what first felt impossible to name.
3. rhythm is everything
before it carries meaning, writing carries sound. every sentence has its own tempo and its own breath. read your work out loud and you’ll feel exactly where it loses its pulse. when the language feels stiff, stop worrying about what you’re trying to say and listen instead to how it wants to move. shorten one line, lengthen the next, let the paragraph breathe. rhythm is the body of the writing and the thing that turns thought into motion. when you find it, the meaning will follow naturally.
4. stop trying to sound like a writer
nothing kills a sentence faster than performance. the moment you start thinking about how it will sound to someone else, you lose the pulse of what you actually mean. style isn’t something you put on afterward, it’s what remains when you stop pretending. write the way you think, let it spill out unfiltered, and only then shape it into something deliberate. the goal isn’t to sound polished or literary, it’s to sound like the words had no other way to exist. the more you try to impress the reader, the further you move from the truth that would have impressed them most.
5. learn to end early
most writing stays around too long. we explain, we clarify, we linger, afraid the reader might not understand unless we hold their hand all the way to the end. but endings lose their power when they overstay. a good ending feels like an exhale, a door left half open. stop one breath sooner than you think you should and it will leave a lasting impact. this is where you need to trust your intuition and most importantly, trust your reader to stay with you without needing to be led.
6. tension, not plot, drives everything
plot is what happens, but tension is what keeps you watching. i’m someone who enjoys fragmented literature. no plot just vibes. the anne carson, lispector, pessoa genres. but even in this realm of literature or an essay or a poem, there is a question simmering beneath the surface that refuses to be answered too soon. that’s what keeps the reader awake. when you’re stuck, return to what’s unresolved or curiosity that made you begin. if you write without tension it becomes a list of events with no gravity. tension is what holds meaning together.
7. read like a thief
when you forget how to write, read the way you did before you ever tried to be a writer. read hungrily, curiously, without analyzing the technique or worrying about influence. this has been a recent struggle of mine because every time i sit down to read my mind is restless and all i can think about are all the unchecked items on my to do list, including the writing projects i’m avoiding. but when i can lock into a book, everything else in my life improves significantly. find a passage that stops you and copy it out by hand. pay attention to where the writer pauses, where they speed up, where they breathe. every line that moves you has a structure beneath it and an invisible architecture worth studying. you don’t need to steal the words, only the instincts behind them. this is one of the fastest ways to remember your own voice.
8. cut anything you wrote to prove you’re smart
you can feel it when a sentence is performative. when you start writing to impress, the work loses its intimacy, and the reader can tell immediately. the hardest edits are the ones that remove what once made you proud, but those cuts are what make the piece stronger. the lines that remain will sound cleaner, steadier, more like you thinking aloud.
9. specificity is the soul of style
abstraction is where writing goes to die. words like beautiful or sad flatten everything they touch (they have their place). what makes language come alive is precision. the smell of iron on your hands after touching a subway pole, the half moon dent a wineglass leaves on your lip, the way light flickers through a curtain at 3 p.m. details are how the reader enters the room with you. when you tell the truth closely enough, it stops being personal and becomes something everyone can feel.
10. protect the mystery
not everything needs to be explained. clarity and mystery can coexist, and the best writing understands when to let the reader lean in. when you strip away every bit of ambiguity, you also strip away the things that linger after the last line. what you withhold is just as powerful as what you show. and sometimes the truest thing you can write is the thing you choose to leave unsaid. trust that the reader will feel what you meant, even if you never spell it out.
the rest of this essay is for paid subscribers. i’m sharing the writing tip that has helped me the most. i’m talking about revision, discipline, imperfection, and how to keep writing even when it feels pointless. i’m also sharing the books that taught me how to build a real writing practice and stay in love with the work even on the days it feels impossible. thank you for being here and supporting my work.
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