Writing is so inorganic.

At least, it is the way I do it.

I have taken to the habit of writing in the same manner in which I speak.

If you creepily stalked me, showed up in the coffee shop that I am invariably sitting at, confidently walked up to my table and began speaking to me, I would, no doubt, sound almost exactly like this.

But, there is a slight difference.

While writing, I can sit back (like I just did, actually), stare at the screen, and think to myself, “where is this going, exactly?”

I can look for the squiggly red lines and correct my errors.

I am encouraged to look up definitions of words I want to use but have never actually tried.

I can research synonyms for basic words (elementary verbiage) to sound better educated than I actually am.

I even can delete a whole plethora of words if, after re-reading (another inorganic feature of writing), I find that they don’t fit into the tight flow I aim for in my pieces.

Those are all reasons that separate writing from conversing. But, the biggest difference?

I don’t have to deal with you.

In any healthy or somewhat normal conversation, the other person is supposed to respond.

Unless you have a complete disregard for social norms, really dislike the speaker as a human, or simply cannot hear a quiet voice, you’re going to respond when someone talks to you.

But, that’s just it.

Writing isn’t talking to you, it’s talking at you.

That key difference may seem small – as small as two letters, even – but it is the reason I get so excited when people “read” me rather than listen to me.

If you’re listening to me, you have a chance to interject; to respond; to make the conversation your own.

But, if you’re reading my writing?

That’s all me.

Letting someone talk to you is normal, and occasionally, even pleasant.

Allowing someone to talk at you?

That’s pure dedication.

And, if you enjoy it?

Then, just marry me already, you weirdo.


(artwork found at

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