The Inner Monologue

Ah, yes—write what you know. The timeless, sage advice from the literary elite (or, more likely, that one high school English teacher who smelled vaguely of chalk and existential dread). As if the key to compelling prose is simply mining the mundanity of your own life for content. Oh, you worked in retail once? Groundbreaking. You’ve experienced the soul-crushing weight of existence? Join the club, buddy.

But fine, let’s entertain this notion. If I must “write what I know,” then prepare yourself for a thrilling mix of:

• Hyper-specific rants about obscure hobbies I picked up out of sheer spite.
• Over-analysis of mundane interactions, because apparently standing too long in the cereal aisle is a rich emotional experience.
• Occasional bursts of competence in topics no normal person cares about—congratulations, you’re about to learn more than you ever wanted about [insert niche interest here].

Yes, dear reader, you’ve noticed the pattern. No, you’re not imagining it. Beneath the veneer of general snark and half-baked observations, there are, in fact, things I actually know about. Shocking, I know. Not everything is a desperate attempt to sound smarter than I am—just most things.

So here we are. A blog post about writing what you know, which is, ironically, something I do know about—because I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time overthinking it. And if that’s not the perfect metaphor for the creative process, I don’t know what is.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go research 18th-century nautical knots for a bit I’ll absolutely never use. Because I can.