3 Reasons Why “Write What You Know” Is Often Terrible Advice
“Write what you know…” — is often some of the worst advice ever given to prospective writers and even to experienced ones.
This phrase shows up regularly online, in articles, on blogs, and even at writer’s workshops.
But, really… what the hell does it mean? … This whole “write what you know” thing.
I’ve pondered it for quite some time. Here are three reasons why this may be terrible advice.
1. No Writing About Goals — No Science Fiction
Here’s a concept we could all do well to wrap our heads around. All data — 100% of it — is based on the Past. We have no data for the future. We have predictions, reasonable guesses, prognostications, and so on, but no data.
A “Goal” that we may set for ourselves — Let’s say like:
Write an article of 1000 words, or
Write 10 stories on Medium this month, or
Make $100 in the Medium partner program, or
Gain 134 Followers next week.
All of these are about a point in the future. An experience or data point to be achieved in the future. But it does not become actual data until it enters the past.
Thus, if we were only to “write what we know” — at least in a more philosophical sense — we could never write about the future. Suppose that would mean we would not have the 500 or so books of science fiction that Isaac Asimov wrote. Let alone… we’d have no science fiction.
2. Echo Chamber-itis
Echo chambers arise when individuals are only exposed to information or perspectives aligning with their existing beliefs, reinforcing a singular set of viewpoints and limiting understanding of diverse or other experiences and ideas.
So let’s say I am a white able-bodied heterosexual male that grew up in a neighbourhood that largely looked like, talked like, and thought like me. I am, in fact, the first part of that sentence, but thankfully didn’t experience the latter half of that sentence. But let’s say I did…
If I were to only write what I know, solely drawing from my personal experiences or immediate surroundings, I would be consistently creating narratives echoing a homogenized perspective. It would be a unified, monoculture, stale point of view.
Following this thinking further along… this cycle of echoing familiar narratives creates a vicious feedback loop: writers produce content based on what they know, readers consume what resonates with their experiences, and publishers, seeing a demand, continue to endorse similar narratives.
Over time, this can lead to an oversaturated market where only certain stories are told, while others remain marginalized. For readers, it especially shapes worldviews in a limited and skewed manner, preventing them from understanding a much broader set of human experiences existing beyond their immediate environment (thus the echo chamber).
Oh wait!
That did happen. For centuries. Still happens.
White male narratives frequently dominating airwaves. Or as I just wrote about the other day, a dangerous reality in things like vehicle safety when for decades crash test dummies resembled the “average male”.
The result?
Over 70% higher rates of injury and higher rates of death for female drivers and passengers. (Smithsonian article as one example)
One of the ugly results of echo chamber-itis is that empathy and openness to other perspectives get squelched, squeezed, and quashed. Or, lost in the ignorance of those hearing echoes.
Or, maybe even worse, few stop to think “Wait a minute… are we simply operating in an echo chamber here… are we simply writing what we know?”
3. Be Gone! You Sticky Moral Ambiguities…
In life, there are always gray areas that aren’t easy to pin down, define, or understand (e.g., “know”). If we stick to what we know, we often miss deeper questions that hover in these spaces. Part of that is that when one is ‘knowing’ there are more answers than there are questions.
Venturing out of our comfort zones to explore moral ambiguities is important work — especially if stop to think about some in our societies and wider globe.
Need we look much further than the COVID-19 pandemic and massive public health measures? (e.g. Sacrifice self freedoms to protect many…)
Or, capital punishment?
Or, “collateral damage” in war — when civilians die as a result of warring nations?
Or, of genocidal acts and soldiers, or priests, or clergy “just following orders” from superiors?
The world and many societies are chock-a-block full of moral ambiguities. To be human is to be fallible (suggests some old black book). Or in the simplified wisdom of Buddha, life is suffering.
There are dangerous shadowy pathways lurking in “writing what we know”. Because, largely, to know means that I am right. I must be, because I know.
“This I know to be true,” we might say.
But skulking and slinking around in there are very important questions like:
Why do I think this is true?
How do I know I am right? Why are they wrong?
Where did this knowledge come from? Who told me? Why?
For example, I grew up in northwestern Canada. I went through traditional, public schooling in the 1980s and 90s. This was a time of apartheid in South Africa and its collapse. Warring in the Balkans in Europe. Tiananmen Square. Collapse of the Berlin Wall. And so on.
It was also a time when same-sex marriage was most certainly not permitted. A long-held impact of Christianity in most Western nations — and other religious sects (some bans still in place in some nations).
I grew up alongside Indigenous communities and peoples in Canada. There was a totem pole at the entrance to the high school I attended. But inside the classrooms of that school, I learned next to nothing about Indigenous peoples. And, what I did learn was largely filtered through the eyes and words of white male academics — anthropologists they’re called.
They were “writing what they know”. Granted, they were also writing what they had observed — so they were learning (in a sense) — but it was still filtered through the lenses of “what they knew” and couched in the language of “what those before knew” as a collective discipline of Anthropology within the hallowed halls of academia.
Things have changed (a bit). Now as my kids go through the same school systems they are learning about other narratives — And, so am I.
In Canada, there is what Former Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Canada Beverley McLachlin once called “One of the worst stains on the history of the country”. It’s the history of Residential Schools in Canada. Schools run by churches from the 1800s through 1900s where Indigenous children were forced to attend — often long distances from their home communities and families. Thousands died and never returned home.
In 2015, after close to a decade of research and collecting stories from survivors, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) of Canada released its final reports. They came in at about 26 pounds in total through multiple volumes. In these reports were horrific stories of the realities of these schools and the intergenerational impacts.
The TRC was established as a result of a multi-billion dollar settlement in class action lawsuits brought forward by survivors and their families. Truth and Reconciliation Commissions have also been engaged in other places where horrific acts have occurred. South Africa. The Balkans (former Yugoslavia). Rwanda. And so on.
Yes, some of these were written about ‘things that were known’ but they also went far beyond that. In the case of the TRC in Canada, it amplified voices, stories and things that were known, by people who were often silenced, dismissed and marginalized. The echoes of their voices couldn’t break into the echo chambers of others.
In 2021, I completed and defended a doctoral dissertation (in Education), which was an exploration of my experiences reading the TRC reports in Canada. I most certainly was not “writing what I know” — but in some cases, I was in some places. I was writing about what I was learning, and what I was pondering. It wasn’t easy, nor simple.
For example, with three kids of our own, I’m mortified by the thought of forced schooling, more so within religious doctrine and ideology. And the thought of them not returning home, or suffering the fate that many did — is nearly unspeakable; unthinkable. The opening to my dissertation is a letter to our kids. This is not a generally accepted practice in the academic realm. I pushed against the ideas of some tradition telling me how I should know and how I should present and write that knowing.
For many, as we enter adulthood the ‘schooling’ may stop. There is no more mandatory education. With this comes the reality that many who I went to school with, may still be carrying around perspectives and “things they know”, which they learned 30, 40, 50 years ago.
As I entered a doctorate program focussed on Education — and based on decades of particular kinds of work — I chose to challenge what I knew or thought I knew. At the same time, I challenged what the institution thought it knew — or at least made various pronouncements about (e.g. commitments to social justice, equity, bla bla bla).
I then took these pieces and riffed off of them and what I was reading in the Truth and Reconciliation reports. I compared these with various experiences I had in the past (in the form of written anecdotes). And, I wrote about what I was learning, and how I felt about things I was learning. And I wrote about what I didn’t know and how I felt about that process and not-knowing.
It was an emotionally-charged and at times an emotionally-challenging process. But, I also felt it was a responsibility, which would then better place me in my response-ability. For example, in my work, but also in my life, and especially with my kids.
Much of what I read and explored, I did not know. I wrote a lot about what I did not know, and still do not know. I’m still writing about those things. Especially, as what we don’t know is a massive universe of knowledge, especially when compared against what we do know (like the image that started this article).
Consider Writing “What You Don’t Know “— There Be Dragons There
In bygone days, so the myth goes, map makers when they were indicating uncharted territories — unmapped places — would draw dragons, sea monsters, and other critters.
“There be dragons there” indicated unknown places. As unmapped must mean unknown, right?
Often, some of the most powerful writing and thinking can emerge from unfamiliar and uncharted territories. To get there, we often have to step outside our comfort zones. This can be beneficial for both writers and readers.
Here are five prompts to consider and that may move you away from well-trodden paths of the familiar and into potential uncharted unknowns:
Imagine Future Scenarios: Craft articles and stories that ponder unexplored no-data futures.
Diverse Perspectives: Write from viewpoints different from your own. Consider how things might appear to someone across from you, different from you, living separate lives.
Tackle Moral Dilemmas: Discuss complex ethical issues. Get into those gray, murky areas. Both with your Self and considering them in wider realities.
Highlight Forgotten Histories: Share marginalized or lesser-known stories — especially your own. Make sure other’s stories are yours to share.
Document Learning Journeys: Write about personal growth, change and discoveries. How you navigated some unknowns and made them kind-of-knowns.
So no, please don’t simply “write what you know”… go deeper into those sticky moral ambiguities within you, call into other mountain valleys to hear different echos, and when possible share these publicly. Others may be struggling with similar, related, or parallel challenges.
How do you navigate this old adage of “write what you know?”
This story was originally published in The Writing Cooperative on Medium.