Back in 2018, I thought good writing meant sounding smart. Long sentences. Bigger words. The kind...Back in 2018, I thought good writing meant sounding smart. Long sentences. Bigger words. The kind...
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Back in 2018, I thought good writing meant sounding smart.
Long sentences. Bigger words. The kind of copy that made me feel like a "real writer."
That's what I believed when I started out.
I'd spend hours polishing a LinkedIn post until it sounded impressive... because to me, impressive meant credible.
What nobody told me was that nobody was actually reading it.
I didn't argue with myself. I just kept writing the same way.
And then something happened that quietly changed everything.
I posted two versions of the same idea, days apart. One dressed up. One stripped down to how I'd actually say it out loud.
The simple one got more engagement...
Not a little more. Enough that I couldn't ignore it.
So I sat with that for a while.
Because if simple worked better, what was all that "sounding smart" actually for?
It wasn't for the reader. It was for me.
It was my ego dressed up as expertise.
So I started writing the way I talk. Plain. Direct. One idea per line.
Slower to feel proud of at first... but it worked.
And now, when I write a post, I ask one question before I publish it:
"Would I say this out loud to a friend, or does it just sound good on paper?"
If it only sounds good on paper, I rewrite it.
Because good writing was never about sounding smart.
It was about being understood.
What's a lesson about writing you had to unlearn the hard way?
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