Discover the art of simple writing — how embracing contradiction, honesty, and clarity can turn your words from performance to presence. Learn why simplicity is the soul of timeless writing.
There’s a strange contradiction in writing:
we all want to be understood, yet we keep building walls made of words.
We say we’re simplifying, but often, we’re just dressing complexity in simpler clothes.
We think we’re being clear, yet we’re only clever.
And when we lose the reader, we tell ourselves they just didn’t “get it.”
But maybe they did get it. Maybe the message was lost not in translation, but in the excess — in our need to sound more than we feel.
Simplicity isn’t small — it’s soul.
When I first began writing, I wanted to sound wise. You know, like those writers who seem to pour philosophy straight from their veins.
I would spend hours rearranging sentences, swapping words, polishing meaning until the heart was gone.
And when I’d read it back, I’d think, “This is perfect.”
But it wasn’t. It was hollow.
Because perfection, I learned, is the enemy of presence.
It took me years — and many unread essays — to understand that what I was searching for wasn’t perfection. It was connection. The kind that doesn’t need adornment.
The kind that sounds like truth when you whisper it to yourself in the dark.
The contradiction at the heart of every writer
Writing is full of contradictions.
You must write for yourself, but also for the world.
You must care deeply, yet detach enough to let go. You must labor over words, then make them sound effortless.
The best writers I know don’t resolve these contradictions — they dance with them. They don’t fight the tension; they follow it closely.
Because inside that tension lies the pulse of honesty.
Simplicity isn’t the absence of complexity. It’s the mastery of it. It’s knowing what to keep and what to let go. It’s writing something that doesn’t need to impress — only to be felt.
The day I learned to stop performing
There was a day — not special, not dramatic — when I caught myself editing the same paragraph for the 20th time.
Every version felt “right,” but none of them felt alive.
And in that moment, I realized something quietly devastating:
I was writing for applause, not for alignment.
So I stopped. I took a walk. I came back, deleted everything, and started with this question:
“What if I wrote this like I was talking to one person who already loved my work — and didn’t need to be impressed?”
The words that followed were unpolished, slightly messy, but real.
And when I read them again, I didn’t feel smart. I felt human.
That’s when I learned what simple writing really is — not the absence of effort, but the courage to keep the effort invisible.
Simplicity is an act of surrender
Simple writing is not lazy writing.
It’s disciplined humility. It’s the kind of work that looks easy until you try to do it yourself.
Because stripping your words down to their essence means stripping your ego, too. It means trusting that clarity doesn’t need decoration. That truth, when spoken plainly, already shines.
And in that, writing becomes less about crafting beauty — and more about revealing it.
So, what is the art of simple writing?
It’s writing that breathes. Writing that leaves room for silence. Writing that doesn’t try to win, but to belong.
It’s the kind of writing you read twice, not because it’s complicated, but because it feels true.
Simple writing is timeless because it carries the quiet authority of honesty. It doesn’t scream to be heard — it whispers to be remembered.
And maybe that’s the point. To write something you’d still read a year from now — not because it went viral, but because it still sounds like you.
Final thought:
If there’s such a thing as AI writing,
then this — this collaboration —
is what it’s supposed to look like.
A writer with a heartbeat,
an assistant with precision,
and a message that still feels human.
Because simplicity, like truth, is never man-made. It’s just revealed.
I write stories about creation — not just in the cosmic sense, but the human one. Stories about how small things become infinite when touched by belief.
