What Writing Actually Is When You Strip Away the Fluff

“You don’t get it,” Mark rasped, his knuckles white against the kitchen counter. “You never did.” “I get enough,” David said, his voice dangerously level. “I know what you signed. And I know who took the blame.” “Then call the police,” Mark whispered, stepping closer. “If you think I walked away clean, end it right now.” David’s jaw tightened. He reached for the door handle, turning away before his shaking hands betrayed him. “Not yet. Not until I see the ledger.”

If you were to witness a scene like this in real life but didn’t understand the language being spoken, you might simply mutter, “They’re arguing.” If you saw one of them pointing at something, you might realize, “It seems to be about that thing.” If one of them were your friend and you wanted to reason with the other person, you would likely find yourself powerless to help—simply because you don’t speak their language.

Writing works the same way; it is fundamentally built upon words. To discuss the essence of writing is, inevitably, to discuss words and language. The example above illustrates a primary function of language: a communication protocol for collaboration between individuals. It relies on standardized, objective concepts—such as the English language—serving as a shared foundation to make cooperation possible. What is the other function? Aiding thought. If I had to calculate something like 88 × 562—a multi-digit calculation beyond quick mental math—even though the method is simple, I would still need a piece of paper to work it out slowly.

Writing Is Not Just One-Way Output; It Is a Form of Communication

To someone who doesn’t know English, a piece of writing might look like nothing more than a jumble of strange letters—essentially just an arrangement of symbols. Consequently, if you share a brilliant article with someone who doesn’t speak the language, they cannot decipher this “encrypted” text. Similarly, if a scholar far more knowledgeable than I were to rattle off complex terminology specific to their field, I wouldn’t understand what they meant—even though we speak the same language. “What message is he actually trying to convey to me?” I would wonder.

If even brief conversations can be challenging to interpret, the difficulty is compounded when dealing with articles that run to one or two thousand words. These uncertainties accumulate over time—and the challenge increases further if the article’s structure is disjointed, presenting arguments with a non-linear, “jumping” logic (such as discussing mathematics in the first paragraph and literature in the second).

But why do we call writing a form of communication? Simply decoding text isn’t enough; true communication requires interaction.

“Does that make sense, or did I completely lose everyone on step three?” Questions like this are common in the classroom. They serve to elicit feedback, helping the instructor decide whether to move on to new material. Written articles, however, clearly lack this opportunity for immediate dialogue. A creator hits “publish” and then stares at the backend metrics—view counts, likes, comments, and shares. That is essentially the extent of it. Yet, this is a form of interaction. Platforms use these metrics as the core drivers of their recommendation algorithms, and creators often make acquiring them their primary goal. In reality, however, these metrics also serve as a feedback mechanism for the creator. Weak signals suggest one of two conclusions: either the article lacks inherent value, or the message failed to “decode” successfully with the audience.

Seeing lackluster numbers after spending so much time polishing an article feels like sharing a story enthusiastically with a friend, only for them to fall silent or dismissively remark, “So what?”—leaving the atmosphere dead and awkward. The secret, however, lies in the balance between practical value and emotional value.

Practical Value

Practical value has two dimensions: the value you possess yourself and the value you offer to others. For instance, if you speak English and someone else doesn’t (which is inevitable), you possess a certain value; however, if that person has no desire to learn English, you hold no practical value for them. Simply put, personal competence only translates into value when it meets an audience’s specific need.

Different platforms prioritize different types of value. For example, Google’s E-E-A-T framework—which heavily shapes search rankings—prioritizes firsthand experience, deep topical expertise, and proven credibility. The reason different platforms demand different types of practical value lies in user intent: where readers go depends entirely on the specific problem they are trying to solve.

However, value exists on a spectrum; an article might be immensely valuable to one group while holding little worth for another. This depends on the nature of the knowledge itself. For instance, in regions where English is not the primary language, it is often viewed merely as a specialized utility—useful for international trade or academia, but optional for everyday life. Consequently, it holds little utility for the general population there. Yet, for someone planning to relocate abroad, mastering conversational English becomes an urgent priority. If an article focuses on advanced academic grammar instead of functional dialogue, it still holds value, but far less for that specific reader’s reality.

The reason value is tied to objective knowledge is that almost all knowledge has a functional application. You might study UI design to create intuitive web interfaces, or study frameworks to streamline operations. Therefore, assessing an article’s practical value requires examining its utility—whether it solves a concrete problem or improves an existing workflow. It is important to note, however, that what one subjectively deems useful is not always objectively so. Furthermore, due to the complexities of decoding information, certain advanced insights only become useful once the reader has mastered the prerequisite fundamentals.

Emotional Value

Sometimes, putting on headphones creates a sensation of weightlessness—like missing a step—dragging you into a deep, heavy emotional state where you have no desire to speak, wanting only to let the melody thud dully against your chest. At other times, it feels like gulping down ice-cold water; your nerves are jolted awake, the rhythm in your chest surges wildly with the drumbeat, and you feel an inexplicable burst of energy.

This is the nature of emotional experience. If a technical blog incorporates a literary style, it transforms cold, purely functional material by adding a layer of immersion. Yet, people generally do not visit technical blogs seeking immersion; they simply want to resolve a bug or execute a task. Adding literary flair rarely adds value here; in fact, it often backfires by slowing down how quickly readers can extract essential information.

Some writing carries an authoritative, classroom-like tone—the author lectures from a podium while the reader listens passively. In contrast, an effective emotional tone resembles a conversation between colleagues over coffee, inviting dialogue rather than imposing hierarchy. However, this isn’t an absolute rule; the technical blog example mentioned earlier serves as a counterexample. One cannot generalize; tone must follow content.

How does one determine the appropriate emotional tone for an article? Simply by considering the target audience. And how do you identify that audience? By looking at the practical application of the knowledge the content conveys.

Applying the Framework: A Self-Dissection

Take this article, for instance. It focuses on the essence of writing—dissecting the nature of the craft rather than discussing stylistic tricks. Consequently, the content leans toward the instructional; it aims to share observations that the reader might not have fully articulated yet. Yet, readers vary in experience. A beginner might benefit from this breakdown, but compared to an actionable piece on “how to choose viral topics,” this essay might feel overly abstract. Engaging with this material requires prior reflection on how communication works—specifically regarding the invisible contract between writer and reader. Someone just starting out rarely considers tone calibration as a primary challenge. I recall leaning on tools like Grammarly early on, simply prompting for a “professional tone” instead of understanding how tone is actually built. Conversely, seasoned essayists already take these dynamics for granted. Therefore, this article naturally anchors toward intermediate writers. The biggest pitfall for instructional prose is coming across as preachy; the remedy is adopting a peer-level, conversational stance. Since the goal is collective reflection rather than decree, an egalitarian tone is the natural fit.