Eric Tian

In writing publicly, there is always a particular dilemma that arises: do you write for yourself, or for others?

If you write for yourself, you are being selfish, and your audience might lose interest. But if you adopt a more generous route and write for other people, are you being authentic and writing what you really want to write?

For years, I struggled with this stalemate. I couldn’t work out the balance that would satisfy both my creative spirit and my desire for recognition. It felt like I had to choose either doing my work, or receiving praise. They were mutually exclusive.

One day, I gave myself an experiment. I would write only things I wanted to write; ideas that were burning inside of me. These weren’t posts that would receive many views or likes – my analytics told me that already. But I did it anyway.

The results weren’t surprising. The posts got fewer views than usual and my statistics began to drop. And I’ll admit – a part of me found this depressing. If only I wasn’t so selfish, I wouldn’t have lost my readers.

But over time, something curious happened: I began to love what I was doing. Despite my record low viewership, my real writing voice was beginning to emerge and my ideas became more and more refined. I soon became proud of my posts and thought every piece was unique.

Then the funniest thing happened: my viewership went back up again. I went from losing 70% of my readers over a week, to gaining over 1000% in a year.

What I learnt from this experience was that selfish work is generous. Copying what’s been done before is safe, but boring. It will never get you further than what other people are doing. You might think you are being generous, but you might merely be familiar.

The most generous thing you can do as a creator is to be yourself. People might avoid you at the beginning, but as you discover your talents and polish your craft, people will notice and love you for it.

Here’s to more generously selfish work.

Conversations tire me out.

I always thought it was because I am introverted, where the stimulus of my companion becomes overwhelming with time. But recently I’ve realised it’s not me at all – rather, it’s the medium of conversation that is exhausting.

Compare a live conversation with reading a book. Because the nature of a conversation allows for no dead periods, and the presence of others requires continuous responses, we often blurt out thoughtless phrases and can rarely plan an honest answer. Conversations often land on boring but familiar topics that people can quickly ping-pong opinions about, compared to finding more meaningful ground. It is no wonder most conversations are superficial; the very nature of communication forces one to find a common – usually boring – denominator.

Worse, live conversations are privy to distractions and fluctuations in mood, so one’s true opinion might change from one second to the other. And do not forget the interruptions, corrections or additions routinely found in conversation from our companions; further barriers for the clear delivery of ideas.

In contrast, books provide space for carefully thought-out phrases and the chance to undo an inappropriate, or inadequately presented thought. Whereas conversation allows no room to revise our words, writing largely consists of rewriting, where original thoughts become enriched and nuanced over time. The process of writing, reading and re-writing ensures that the final version is the best, most representative idea of the author.

Of course, conversations and human interactions have its necessary place. But as I get older and choose my friends more carefully, it is interesting to observe this gradual proclivity towards books, and away from people.