Why should we write?

A call to seek clarity in a distracted world.

Courtesy of The Metropolitan Museum of Art

In a world of Instagram reels and drama-laden news, alongside a buffet of distractions that seek to hold our attention spans hostage, we often struggle to discern what is essential from the merely entertaining.

Writing and thinking constitute two parts of the same process; to neglect one is to severely inhibit the other. Even if it takes ten times, we must attempt to get our phrasing exact, attuned to our inner voice. The time we invest in this writing yields a great reward: to fully understand ourselves and our relation to that which externally exists around us.

Distraction, however, is not modernity’s fault alone. Rather, it is a pressing challenge to overcome. We write endlessly—emails, texts, search queries—yet rarely articulate our deepest thoughts, lost in the monotony and frustration of our overstimulated and under examined lives. The temporary victory of sacrificing a few hours of phone time for a hobby, or even a lingering conversation, is not sufficient alone, so I am here to offer a better way to frame things. To make better sense of our hectic world, we must translate thought into writing—for its own sake, as much as we are able, just for the sake of it.

Thus is the essence of reflective writing, exemplified by sixteenth-century French aristocrat Michel de Montaigne. In his work Of Task and Theme, he emphasized how writing is the “interpreter of our souls,” taking what is abstractly present in our minds and making it concrete in the world. Unbeknownst to him, he is now credited with the creation of the “essay” genre that we, as college students, are so well acquainted with today.

However, writing surpassed mere personal insight, or, as novelist Walker Percy labeled it, “the search” for something internal. Our suppositions, laid down in writing, constitute searches for truth, dignity, and beauty, fostering collective understanding and augmenting our view of humanity. Writing is not merely a byproduct of thinking but its crucible—where abstract notions gain coherence, and ephemeral ideas gain permanence. The personal clarity we derive from fully capturing our thoughts engenders us to carve out an avenue towards understanding for others, as a beacon leading the way.

Amid prepackaged frames of reference, and the collective myopia we feel as a result, we must try to think ourselves to frustration. Writer George Orwell once likened writing to battling “a demon whom one can neither resist nor understand." This “demon” illuminates our inner conflicts and sharpens our perception, driving us to conquer ideas with conviction. By testing ideas against reality, we fill our internal world with the concrete and true.. This process is painful because good writing requires submitting to a scalpel that leaves our deepest inhibitions and fears exposed.

We fear  our interpretations may falter—misguided, inauthentic, or incomplete. But writing affirms us as thinking, existing beings, unique amid billions, satisfying an existential need. Alexandr Solzhenitsyn, a survivor of the Soviet Union's sprawling gulag system and staunch critic of Communism, reflected on challenges to this individualistic worldview in The Gulag Archipelago. In describing arrest, Solzhenitsyn observes that while the universe has many centers, a mind under duress struggles to comprehend such shifts. Human dignity, for him, is an immutable truth, not a concept to be easily dismissed. We must affirm it in ourselves, especially through our writing.

In liberal democracies, we enjoy freedoms denied to those in illiberal regimes, where authentic expression is subverted by official constructions of reality. As Americans, we have the freedom—and duty—to pursue truth on our terms, not as dictated by others. This inheritance is both a privilege and an obligation, vital to the functioning of our fragile public sphere. Whatever our reasons for writing, the act ultimately forms a much-needed connection between the writer and the reader, and a nexus of objective thought in the process.

The best writers are oracles, vessels for truths others cannot reach alone. Yet writing’s purpose is not merely contemplative, but active. We have a duty to fearlessly express these ideas as an extension of civic life, but face consequences when we shy away. Philosopher Hannah Arendt contended that an "almost indemonstrable loss" occurs when we retreat from the world in its glory and strife. In doing so, we risk extinguishing the human connections that light our path.

To meet 21st-century challenges, we must find our voice within broader intellectual and civic discourse, placing ourselves into the liberal tradition. This arduous, yet infinitely beneficial undertaking molds our inspiration into pure expression. Distractions and technological escapism undermine this process, and grappling with the timeless texts and difficult conversations with our own psyches yields more questions than answers. Yet, our democracy–and our sense of self in a modern world–depends on it.

Writing transcends the academic; it is self-discovery, connection, and the pursuit of understanding. By writing thoughtfully as students we enrich our respective studies and sustain our intellectual and civic communities. Here at the Florida Finibus, we are fiercely committed to building such a space. However, it thrives on thoughtful, fearless thinkers who desire to cultivate this habit of mind, so I hope that you join us in this endeavor.