What is the key difference between writing a great poem and merely thinking of writing one? Before the age of computers and large language models, we might just say “In one case you wrote it; in another you didn’t”.
But clearly in your mind there were some internal representations going on even when you are just conceiving of a great poem. Turns of phrases; feelings you want to convey; even fragments, maybe one complete line or two.
“If you wrote it down, people might read it; if you didn’t, you will forget it and lose it forever.”
Not necessarily. You could write a fantastic poem and burn it immediately. The act of writing should still make a difference, shouldn’t it?
“But when you actually put thought to paper, you have to (at a minimum) fill in all the gaps and iron out all the poor turns of phrases that irk you. When you succeed in writing down a poem (even if only to burn it immediately afterwards) you have brought it to a degree of completion that is lacking when all you had were ideas in your head.”
So does the magic happen whenever you put thought on paper? Even when it is a (very) rough draft? Or a kind of “auto-fiction” when you find yourself writing things that you don’t (consciously) plan on saying (as if you are being possessed by someone to write it, as in the novel “Hong Kong Type”)?
“Yes. The so-called “final text” is just the final draft that you cannot be bothered with any more. The quantum leap happens when you first put thought to paper; all the subsequent revisions are just gradual improvement of the same thing.”
But why draw the line only when pen is actually on paper (or hand on keyboard, or dictated text appears on screen)? When you are thinking up a poem, essay, or any text, you are really mumbling to yourself. Some words must have flashed through your mind.
If technologies such as Neuralink are possible (and there is no reason in principle they aren’t), you should be able to directly control computers with your brain alone with some internal representations in your brain. If a machine can detect our internal monologue, would the magic moment happen when our internal monologue is converted to lines of a screen?
“No, there must be an active element involved; writing must be effortful. When you focus on writing (or typing/dictating), you are focusing on one line of thought (and one line of text) at the expense of others. An implicit choice must already have been made as to what is important and pressing.
It is this active (and non-parallelisable) choice that explains the quantum leap from mere thoughts to a piece of text capable of being refined into a great poem/essay/novel.”
But some of our internal monologues are also capable of great focus, direction, even structure.
Idle wandering (or the flow of imageries/sensations in mindful meditation is one thing). Rumination (e.g. on people who we think wrong us) are different: those are capable of great focus, maybe too much focus!
It is this structure and focus that explains how sometimes we can just switch into a long spiel when speaking or writing: not the other way round. Writing doesn’t make our thoughts any clearer, any more than a thermometer makes a room hotter or cooler. The speed/fluency of writing is just a reflection of how clear and well developed our thoughts are.
“So perhaps there are two things.
First, writing is an aid to thinking. The simple physical activity of putting words on record somehow clarifies our thinking. For some people, walking or exercising may have he same effect; for others only writing things down will do.
Second, there is a social aspect that explains the quantum leap. Once the thoughts have been articulated into words on paper/screen, it can in principle be read (even if only for the brief second before burning or deletion).
Once we are able to read what we write, we are putting ourselves in the shoes of someone else altogether. We can keep a distance with our thoughts (of a few seconds ago), and then judge them as something from an outsider. Is it correct? Are the turns of phrase pleasing? And so on.
Part of that judgment will also be an implicit classification of genre. Is it fiction? Legal submissions? Scientific explanation? A how-to guide? These classifications don’t matter when the thoughts are merely in our head and we are already absorbed in the context they are coming from.
Writing removes that context and forces us to articulate it. This is why a quantum leap happens when we articulate our thoughts consciously.”
And once you write things down, they are liable to be judged and misunderstood. People reach for whatever interests them most, shift the emphasis, or sometimes just carelessly misread. The engagement algorithms of various platforms direct the text to readers you never expected. It becomes risky: something people may judge by unexpected standards for unexpected reasons.
“But that’s not the point. When your text is read, the reader is already fitting it into their own narrative: in a fundamental sense they are already rewriting it (even if not for sharing/publication just yet). When they respond in their own terms the cycle begins again: to the extent you provoked a reaction at all, they are already measuring the clarity of their own thoughts by writing (broadly conceived).”