I Write, Therefore I’m Not (Totally) Crazy

 “Writing is the only profession where you get paid for your insanity.”

A writer once said.

And I laughed out loud.

Just think about it:

If you went around telling people about a sport played on flying broomsticks at a magic boarding school that can only be accessed by running straight into a brick wall at a train station — they’d probably refer you to a psychologist. Not revere you like the world reveres J.K. Rowling.

If you stood on a bus stop and spoke about two male dwarves on a mission to destroy a piece of jewelry - aided by long-haired elves, muscle-bound warriors, and a wise wizard daddy - people would assume you just left a queer fantasy fest, not that you wrote The Lord of the Rings.

I deeply admire the kind of writers who can create entire universes out of nothing — worlds that defy logic, yet somehow make us feel something incredibly real.

I’ll admit: I don’t feel the same reverence toward career guides, technical books, or even self-help bestsellers. (Maybe that's why I despite even my own book.)

To me, those are a form of journaling. A kind of graduation ritual where you write down what you've learned when you accomplish the self education.

And the more your lessons resonate with others, the better your book will sell.

But this article isn’t about comparing genres.

It’s about the power of writing itself — no matter what form it takes.

We often assume that writing is all output — words flowing out.

But no one talks enough about the reverse.

That every word you type is also reconfiguring the way you think.

That writing isn’t just about expressing - it’s about understanding, yourself first and then others.

Not just about connection - but about returning, again, to yourself first and then others.

Some questions don’t find answers until you write them down.

Some emotions don’t take shape until you commit them to a page.

And some forms of madness - can only be healed by giving them a voice.

At least for me.

So, if you’re in the thick of it - confused, overwhelmed, unraveling - maybe reach for a pen. Write to yourself. Write to someone you love.

Or simply scribble it on the back of a receipt. The nearest napkin. The margin of a grocery shopping list. The last page of your expired passport, on your last trip.

And if my writing is floating around more often, it probably means I’m more or less insane - in a healthy way.

Because maybe our clarity isn’t hiding in a reason.

Maybe it’s waiting in a story we haven’t finished yet.