A writer is four people at once

on obsession, simplicity, style, and knowing when to stop

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about writing — why it gets harder as we get older, and why so many good ideas never make it past our own internal editing. About how easy it is to overthink something before it ever has the chance to exist.

This is a piece about coming back to writing, but also about process — and what’s helped me stop getting in my own way.

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I’ve loved writing since I was a little girl — cliché, I know.

For as long as I can remember, I was writing poems and short stories (though the only ones I can clearly remember were romance vampire stories — weird, I know) and reading them aloud to my dad while he worked around the house. I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up, but for a long time, I thought maybe it would be something in writing.

I took AP English in high school and loved it. Excelled, even. Funny that I ended up choosing a career in nursing — finishing my grade twelve year buried in physics, calculus, biology, and chemistry just to get into the program I wanted. I kept writing through university though: small blog posts here and there, all now lost to expired Wordpress and Blogger domains.

As I got older, I drifted away from writing. But coming back to it now feels a bit like getting back on a bike. The muscle memory is there. It feels familiar, even if a little wobbly at first.

Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City (Season 5, 2002)

I don’t remember exactly what pulled me back in. But lately, rewatching Sex and the City and listening to Carrie Bradshaw narrate her inner dialogue (what eventually becomes her column) has made me want to show up here more candidly in my writing. To let whatever is inspiring me take shape. To let whatever I’m living, noticing, or thinking about find its way onto the page. To allow what I’m seeing — in myself, in other people, in the world — become something concrete instead of staying half-formed in my head.

To allow a passing thought to become something more.

Writing may be like riding a bike, but it’s still easy to get stuck. To over-critique before ever clicking post. To stop a spark before it has the chance to grow. To never let yourself linger with an idea long enough for it to turn into something real. To silence your true voice before it even has a chance to speak.

For a long time, I couldn’t quite name why this kept happening. Until I came across an idea that changed how I think about writing.

That was, the writer must be four people.

The four are something like this:

the obsédé (obsessed — in the best sense)
the moron (or what I like to call the messy one)
the stylist
and the critic

The obsédé is the part of you that notices too much. The one who saves screenshots, rereads sentences, lingers on ideas longer than necessary. It’s the part of you that pays attention when everyone else doesn’t. You notice patterns and fixate on details that don’t seem important yet. This is where taste is born. Not in trends, not in logic, but in fascination. If you remove this part, there’s nothing original left.

Then comes the messy one, aka the moron. And this part is underrated. The messy one isn’t trying to be clever or impressive. Rather, you just let the thought come out as it is. Unpolished, messy, unfiltered, sometimes embarrassing, and sometimes poorly phrased. Maybe even slightly cringe. But honest. Overthinking kills momentum. Simplicity (and a little bit of messiness) is what allows ideas to exist in the first place.

The stylist comes next. And this part is easy to overcomplicate. The stylist isn’t about dressing things up or making them sound fancy. It’s more about how something comes out. Choosing words that feel natural when you read them back. Knowing when to keep it simple and when a little rhythm helps it flow better. The stylist trims what feels extra, tightens what matters, and lets the rest go. This is where personal taste shows up.

And finally, the critic. The intelligent one. This is the part that looks at the piece as a whole and asks: does this actually make sense? Is there a real point here, or does it just sound nice? Does the ending earn the beginning? Did I explain this well enough, or am I assuming too much? The critic isn’t trying to sound smart — it’s making sure the work is smart. To make sure the whole thing holds together. That it can stand on its own without explanation.

Most people get stuck because these voices start speaking out of order. The critic arrives too early. The stylist refines before anything honest has been said. Or the obsessed part never lets go.

But when you understand that each voice has a role, writing becomes less intimidating. You stop trying to get everything right in one pass. You allow yourself to move through the process instead of fighting it.

If you want to be a better writer, a better storyteller, this helps. Good writing starts with a spark, progresses with honesty, gets shaped by taste, and ends when it can stand on its own.

And the more I sit with it, the more I realize this isn’t just about writing. It’s about creating anything worth keeping.