Trying to sound like a person who's smart (Thread 04)
On the pressure and performance of trying to sound thoughtful when writing this newsletter every 2 weeks
Every two weeks, I sit down to write this newsletter.
This isn’t remarkable. People do much harder things with far less internal drama. But each time, a familiar sensation returns - the quiet but insistent expectation that I should say something interesting.
Not necessarily groundbreaking. Just enough to suggest a mildly functioning intellect. Perhaps something about work. Or time. Or the human condition.
The truth is, this icky tension - between expressing something important, or just trying to look important while doing it - is where a lot of us live now. Especially those of us trying to build something of our own. Especially those of us writing online, where everything is performance-adjacent.
The act of writing today is accompanied by the low-level hum of performance. Even as we try to write clearly, there is the awareness that we’re also curating. Not just ideas, but a version of ourselves. One that is articulate. Reflective. Mildly wise, ideally in a way that doesn’t alienate anyone.
Even this piece risks becoming a self-referential spiral:
I have nothing to say → I should say something → I will write about having nothing to say → But can I make it sound profound?
The pressure to be interesting is what drives us to read just enough headlines to appear informed, to mention a podcast in conversation even if we only listened to the intro, to write as if a small but discerning audience is always watching.
There are many articles online about how to “build an audience,” “find your voice,” or “niche down.” But there is less said about the emotional texture of making things in public. The way even a modest body of work starts to create its own echo chamber - you begin to ask, not “what do I think?”, but “what would someone like me say about this?” And on days like today, that question becomes absurd.
It is rarely enough to be sincere. You must also be original - or at least sound like someone who reads people who are.
This is particularly true when your work sits in the strange space between the personal and the professional. A place where it feels important to appear vulnerable, but not unstable. Intelligent, but not inaccessible. Emotionally literate, but never needy.
So I attempt to write, not necessarily because I always have something to say, but because I’ve committed to the idea of being the kind of person who says things.
Because I’m learning to believe in the slow accumulation and growth of things.
Because most of what’s online never gets read anyway - and actually that’s incredibly freeing and I’m unlikely to ever get canceled in any major way because I wrote about being a bit anxious.
Because I don’t want my work, or my thoughts, to be entirely ruled by whether or not they’re “professional.”
Because the answer is: I don’t know. I’m tired. I’ve been online too much. I’m simultaneously overexposed and isolated. I’m navigating a world where productivity and personal branding are deeply entangled, and I’m not always sure which part of me is speaking.
Still - and this matters - I believe in rhythm. This may not be the most interesting thing I’ve ever written, but it comes from honesty.
Most of what we read online is forgotten.
Most of it is skimmed.
Most of it is content.
But occasionally, something slips through - not because it was important, but because it was true.
I don’t know if this is one of those things.
But I wanted to write it anyway.
If you enjoyed this, please feel free to subscribe to get these fortnightly into your (probably overflowing) inbox:
And if you really liked it, do share it with likeminded folk: