Here’s what I’ve observed, tested, and learned during one year on Substack.

Disclaimer: I am not a Substack coach, and I’m not planning to become one. Everything that follows is based on my own experiences and therefore does not represent the ultimate blueprint. If you’d like to learn more about Substack, I recommend checking out Ditch the Templates or Petal & Hearth.

Why I created this account

On a whim, I posted a video on TikTok in the summer of 2025 in which I wrote about the concept of the personal column.

Shortly before that, I had started writing more again and had found the personal column to be a way of integrating writing into my life despite having a busy schedule.

I didn’t expect the video – which, by the way, wasn’t really a video in the traditional sense but more of a slideshow – to be viewed more than 200,000 times.

Dozens of people appeared in the comments who felt exactly the same way I did. People who loved writing but had stopped doing it for too long because they didn’t have the time to write a novel.

So I kept posting. I was having the time of my life doing it, especially because the exchange with other people was so wonderful.

And that really means something on TikTok.

People wanted to know more and more about the concept of the personal column and, above all, wanted to read one of mine.

My very first instinct was: absolutely not.

Every single one of my texts contains such a revealing part of myself. To me, the idea of putting that part of myself on the internet felt completely absurd.

A few weeks passed, my account grew to more than 5,000 followers, and the demand for my writing kept increasing. Then one of my followers asked about my Substack account in the comments.

I had heard about Substack before through an acquaintance, but I hadn’t realized that the platform was becoming so popular.

So I decided to join the platform without any real commitment at first and get a sense of it as a quiet reader.

What can I say? I fell head over heels.

In a fast-paced era of short-form videos and AI slop, reading the articles of other writers felt like discovering a long-forgotten treasure chest.

So I decided to publish my own column as well.

My first post was about how the concept of the personal column came to be.

At the same time, I published my very first column.

And that was the beginning of a wonderful journey.

The followers

I started sharing my publication in the comments underneath my TikTok videos and tagged my username in my profile.

That was about it.

I didn’t really have a launch strategy. I didn’t want one either.

And yet, the first followers started trickling in quite quickly. After one month, more than 1,000 people were already reading my articles.

That felt incredibly surreal.

Over time, I slowly started investing more energy into Substack than into my TikTok account. I had grown to more than 18,000 followers there, but my heart kept pulling me toward the platform where I was surrounded by other writers.

Every Sunday, I published a column.

I used Notes to share my thoughts about writing.

And this is now where the vast majority of my followers come from.

My first viral Note brought me 533 new subscribers.

Those two other Notes also brought in a significant number of new subscribers:

Here’s an overview of my Note statistics.

And here are all the relevant sources through which I’ve gained subscriber over time.

Compared to that, my articles themselves have brought in relatively few followers:

Going paid

The decision to introduce a paid tier wasn’t an easy one.

I had been self-employed in my early twenties and still remembered the struggle around taxes and bureaucracy in Germany all too well.

I also wanted Substack to remain my hobby – a platform where I could publish without any pressure.

More on that later.

In any case, I spent several months wondering whether I wanted to take the step and introduce a paid tier.

Eventually, I decided to follow my gut feeling and do it.

According to Substack itself, everything sounded fairly simple and promising. Statistically, up to 10% of free subscribers could potentially convert into paid subscriptions.

At the time, I had around 10,000 subscribers.

So naturally, I was expecting early retirement within the next three years (lol).

I registered my business, researched pricing strategies, set up a business account and Stripe, and spent three evenings creating email sequences for paid subscribers.

It was exhausting and exciting at the same time.

During the first week of January 2026, I published my first paid article.

That same evening, another Substack writer also launched her paid tier. She promoted personalized letters for the first 100 subscribers and weekly live calls.

And then there was me. Me with no big strategy, no launch deal and no extensive marketing.

I immediately started doubting my own strategy. But I stayed true to myself. I wanted to keep things deliberately simple.

My first paid post brought me 32 paid subscriptions.

I was overwhelmed.

My first pricing model was around $8 per month or $75 per year. That felt fair to me, and it worked well for several months.

Then the first subscription cancellation came in.

And it hit me hard.

Naturally, I first started looking for the problem in myself. Should I have posted more? Had I provided too little value?

I hated that thought because that was exactly what I didn’t want Substack to become for me: pressure.

I had more than enough of that at work.

New paid subscriptions continued to come in every week, but people also left from time to time.

I started getting the impression that some people subscribed for a month, consumed all of the available content, cancelled their subscription, and repeated the process with the next writer.

At some point, I became too afraid to look at my statistics.

So I decided to change my pricing model.

My goal for the paid community had always been to build long-term relationships and share more in-depth thoughts and insights within a smaller circle.

I wanted people in my community who were there for longer than a month.

I started researching possible approaches and came across an article (which, unfortunately, I can no longer find) that recommended aligning the monthly price with the annual price so that more people would choose the yearly subscription.

I thought it was worth a try.

This model ($25 monthly or $75 annually) has now been running for several months, and I’m very happy with the decision.

The growth in new paid subscribers has slowed down, but I know that the people who commit for at least a year are genuinely invested.

The pressure

Another hurdle I had to overcome during the past year was dealing with the pressure I had created for myself as my follower count grew and I introduced the paid tier.

For many months, publishing every Sunday no longer felt like something I did voluntarily and enjoyed. It increasingly started to feel like pressure.

Suddenly, many pairs of eyes were directed at my writing.

And I first had to learn how to deal with that. I felt the need to produce better and better columns. More exciting stories.

Until one of my friends shook me awake by reminding me that people were following me precisely because of the content I was already creating.

And that content is about turning ordinary life into stories.

That realization helped me take some of the pressure out of it again.

But pressure also came from the opposite direction: when one of my articles simply didn’t perform.

Sometimes, I spent three evenings writing a story that was then read by 40 people.

Learning not to take a small response personally was difficult for me too. Then I imagined those 40 people sitting in my living room. Forty people listening to me read my column out loud.

And the voice in my head became quieter.

I remembered why I had started writing in the first place.

I did it for myself.

As wonderful as it is that so many people now enjoy the texts on this account, at the end of the day, I only do all of this because I know that I neglect an integral part of myself whenever I stop writing.

And besides: the Substack algorithm is unpredictable.

If your texts aren’t reaching anyone, I can tell you with a great deal of certainty that it is probably not because all of them are absolutely terrible.

They simply might not fit the type of content Substack currently prefers to distribute.

The haters

I now have more than 16,000 subscribers and more than 19,000 followers here on Substack.

My writing has reached many hundreds of thousands of people around the world.

Out of all of them, there have been only three public haters.

A pretty good ratio, I think.

Person number one hated the fact that I put my books backwards on my bookshelf.

His logical conclusion was that I must be mentally ill.

Person number two agreed with person number one and then accused me of being an AI bot.

Person number three insulted me quite viciously and hated the fact that, as an untalented nobody and “so-called influencer” (a term I had never used to describe myself) I was giving other people writing advice.

All three of them were men.

Every single comment triggered the same reaction in me.

At first, I found them extremely funny.

Then, after a little distance, I became angry that complete strangers felt such hostility toward me.

That these people managed to make me feel insecure because I wasn’t sure whether the hateful messages would remain just that: messages.

My first strategy was to engage in conversation and have a little fun making the commenters look slightly ridiculous.

As it turns out, men don’t like that very much.

Their reactions to my amused responses were therefore significantly worse than their initial comments.

By now, I have learned something for myself: Block immediately. For your own peace of mind.

Why I’m still here

Posting consistently on Substack takes time and energy.

I track my writing hours with a tool called MOCO, and depending on the article, I spend around three to five hours per week on Substack alongside my full-time job.

That might not sound like much at first, but it usually means giving up half a weekend day.

I’m also nowhere near Substack’s estimated 10% paid subscriber conversion rate.

So why do I still gladly invest my time in Substack?

First of all, because I love writing. I love that I found this part of myself again through Substack. That intrinsic motivation is a huge driving force.

And secondly: you.

You cannot imagine how much your kind words mean to me.

How often I’ve been able to read that my work has made you see life differently.

That you have started finding beauty in ordinary things.

Knowing that I can inspire other people through my own writing is simply such a huge motivation for me.

I appreciate this opportunity more than I can say.

Here are a few insights.

What I want to leave you with

As I said at the beginning, I am not a Substack coach.

But if you put a gun to my head and asked me for my Substack tips, this is what I would say.

1. Bring your community with you

The fact that I had been active on TikTok for a while made my start on Substack significantly easier.

So if you already have a community somewhere else, make them aware of your Substack publication.

2. Post Notes

I post between five and seven Notes per week.

Most of the time, I simply share thoughts that I briefly touched on in my latest article.

Notes are my biggest growth factor, especially since I stopped actively posting on TikTok.

3. Stay true to yourself

From the very beginning, I built a name for myself by being the person who writes a column about her own life.

Of course, there are 20,000 other topics I could have written about – I’m interested in many different things.

BUT I noticed that there was a demand for this particular type of writing, and I stayed true to it.

Standing for something works well on every platform. That isn’t a Substack-only phenomenon.

4. Know why you’re doing it

If the number of followers you have on Substack is your only motivation, you will start doubting yourself during every stagnant phase.

You need an intrinsic reason that keeps you publishing.

Because it is entirely possible that nobody will read your writing for months.

5. Keep going

Once you know that reason, keep going.

Substack, like every other platform, rewards consistency. Analyze what works well and what you actually enjoy doing.

Then do more of that. It sounds cliché, but it’s the truth.

Here’s to many more years

One year on Substack. Wow. What a journey this has been.

I’m incredibly happy to have found a platform with so many like-minded people and grateful to have built such a wonderful community here.

Thank you, Substack.

Here’s to many, many more years.

In front of me lies a ridiculously expensive leather notebook, inside of which sits an equally ridiculously expensive notebook, in which I’m writing these lines with an embarrassingly expensive pen. My AirPods are playing the playlist “writer aesthetic playlist.”

In an age where there is a fitting aesthetic for everything – Cottagecore, Coastal Grandma Aesthetic, European Summer, Trad Wife, Clean Girl – it doesn’t surprise me that literature hasn’t been spared either.

Writer Aesthetic, Authorcore, Slow Writing, Coastal Writer.

You don’t write a romance novel anymore, you write Dark Romance, Slow Burn, New Adult, or Forbidden Romance.

Of course, this phenomenon in itself is nothing new. Punk, hip-hop, skate culture – these are all subcultures that have taken root over the past few decades and, above all, have given young people a sense of belonging.

But now, instead of real connections, we are experiencing an aestheticized, algorithm-friendly revival shaped by opportunities for consumption.

Because of course, these days you can’t simply be a writer. You want to fit the image of a writer.

Suddenly, you need the right playlist. The right desk. The right notebook. The right bag to carry the notebook in.

And, of course, the right book you’re currently reading – preferably with a slightly yellowed cover, so it looks like you’ve been taking literature seriously for more than just yesterday.

I think we are currently watching writing become a lifestyle category

I can’t exclude myself from this.

I love beautiful notebooks. I love cafés for writing. I love my little writing rituals. I have a playlist that I listen to exclusively while writing. And, honestly, I find the idea of sitting at my table with a coffee on a rainy afternoon, working on a column, pretty romantic.

The problem isn’t the aesthetic. The problem begins where the aesthetic replaces the activity.

Where you spend more time feeling like a writer than actually writing.

And perhaps that is precisely the insidious side of this whole aestheticization: It gives us the feeling that we are already part of a world before we have even done anything to become part of it.

about the author

Hi, I’m Lina. A little over two years ago, I left my life by the sea behind to start over in Germany’s second-largest city.

After many years away from writing, I picked it up again in the summer of 2025. But instead of writing the novel I had always imagined, I chose short-form writing because it fit my life better.

That’s how my personal column was born – a place where I write about the ordinary moments of everyday life, and the stories hiding inside them.

Here on Substack, I also share ideas, practical guides, and reflections for writers who want to build a writing practice that fits their life, rather than waiting for the perfect circumstances.

I am not a literary scholar, but my column is occasionally described as quite entertaining. And even though my parents might see that differently; just as I am not a literary scholar, I am also not a prodigy. So I am pretty sure you, too, can write texts that excite you—and, ideally, real readers. But for that, you need to understand the craft.

This is a guide for everyone whose fingers start itching at the thought of writing their own column and essays. And it is an attempt to convince those who believe their lives are too boring to write about that they are oh so wrong.

What is a personal column?

A quick refresher:

A personal column is a short, narrative-style piece of writing that focuses on one specific topic. It takes personal experiences, thoughts, or observations and turns them into a story.

In the following, I distinguish between plot-driven and character-driven texts. The latter are what we encounter most often here on Substack: texts in which personal reflections, internal struggles, personality, relationships, personal growth, and emotional arcs take center stage in form of a personal essays.

Plot-driven texts, on the other hand—like the ones you may know from my column—focus on what happened: external conflicts, sequences of events, action, mystery, and suspense.

My guide works for both plot-driven and character-driven texts and offers useful tools for each.

The substance of a personal column

Let’s go a bit deeper and break down the substance of a personal column. This makes it easier to understand the concept—and to find your own way into it.

The overarching theme

One thing I’ve learned: having an overarching theme makes it much easier to write new issues on a regular basis. If one week you write about your first kindergarten argument and the next about ten things you learned in your career, that’s certainly versatile—but it will be harder to consistently generate new ideas.

If, on the other hand, you (at least for now) commit to one or two overarching themes, you’ll quickly notice how much faster ideas come to you.

In my column, for example, almost every text falls into one of these two categories:

• Life in a big city

• Interpersonal encounters with strangers

This developed very naturally, and every text can be assigned to at least one of these themes.

Your themes may look completely different. An overarching theme should be neither too narrow nor too broad. Here are a few examples:

• Dating life in your twenties

• Experiences from your corporate job

• Conversations with friends

• Your life as a mother

• Memories from your childhood

• Stories about aging

• Cooking and food

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The story

As mentioned above: once you’ve defined an overarching theme, it becomes much easier to find weekly ideas to write about.

In my case, these are often very ordinary experiences or encounters—nothing remotely cinematic.

A mantra that helps me a lot is this: Stop looking for events. Start looking for thoughts.

This means that, for my column, it’s usually not that important what exactly happened—but rather what I thought about it. In this column, for example, nothing exciting happened at all from an outside perspective. I simply went to a café and ate a pistachio croissant. That’s it. And yet it’s one of my most-read columns, because my thoughts about the experience made up the entire story.

What helps me is keeping a list of thoughts and interesting fragments of phrases that might eventually make their way into a column. You’ll notice that this exercise changes how you perceive your life—you become much more aware. Because every thought, every encounter, is potential material for a new story.

Examples:

• “felt weird after that dinner”

• “why i hate buying socks”

• “the way the barista said my name”

• “that one sentence my friend said”

You don’t need to know yet what a note will turn into. Maybe it turns into nothing. Better to have it than to need it.

I could give you a long list of possible column topics—but please believe me when I say this wouldn’t actually help you. The best texts come from your own head, and you will know when an idea is worth turning into a story. That tingling feeling in your stomach will tell you.

Idea prompt

Here’s a prompt to help you find ideas for your column:

What happened today that would have felt insignificant to anyone else — but lingered in my thoughts? What moment from today keeps popping back up?

Then keep writing with these follow-ups (don’t overthink, just answer):

• Where was I?

• Who else was there?

• What did I notice that others probably didn’t?

• What did I think but didn’t say?

• What emotion did this moment trigger? (Be specific.)

• What did this moment remind me of?

• Why am I still thinking about it now?

End with this:

If I were to write a column about this, it would really be about ___.

By now, you should have one or two overarching themes as well as your first entry points. Write this list into your notebook so you can return to it whenever the muse decides to abandon you.

The personal touch and writing style

The defining feature of your column is you. That’s why you need to think about how to bring your personal touch into it—your writing style. The topic of style alone fills entire textbooks, so here’s a condensed look at it.

The personal touch gives your column its recognizability. The goal here is that someone could steal an unpublished text of yours, publish it on their blog as their own—and your loyal readers would still immediately sense that something is off.

Admittedly, that’s a rather egocentric goal and somewhat exaggerated. But it illustrates how important it is to integrate your own touch into your writing.

William Zinsser put it perfectly in On Writing Well:

“Don’t alter your voice to fit your subject. Develop one voice that readers will recognize when they hear it on the page (…)”.

To understand what shapes our writing, it helps to look at how we actually write.

Let’s take Stephen King as an example:

• Simple language over complex terminology: King admires The Elements of Style by Strunk and White (which, in my opinion too, is required reading for writers). His style is often described as clear, precise, vivid, and concise. He favors direct language.

• Focus on characters and emotion: He emphasizes that horror should come from the psychological situation of the characters — not just from violence. His stories are rooted in the fears and thoughts of ordinary people.

• Realistic language and setting: He writes in a simple, everyday tone about “normal” people in familiar environments, which I feel makes the horror seem much closer.

Let’s take a look at what defines my writing:

• Analytical overthinking: I tend to overanalyze even the smallest interactions with strangers. I’m less interested in what was said and more in what it could have meant — the subtext, the “what if” scenarios that spiral in my head.

• Humor through exaggeration: I love exaggeration — not subtly, but deliberately over the top. Hyperbole is my way of creating a very specific kind of sarcasm that sits somewhere between sincerity and absurdity.

• Everyday life as a stage: Nothing particularly dramatic happens in my texts. I write about ordinary situations that might seem trivial at first — but through internal overthinking, they turn into small parallel worlds. What defines my column is not what happens, but how I think about it.

• Personal vulnerability: Because I focus on small moments, my texts inevitably reveal a lot about me. Each column becomes a small window into how I think, what I find funny, and how I see the world.

So; what defines my column is how I think about everyday life and how I put those thoughts into words. As mentioned before, nothing dramatically exciting usually happens in my texts. And yet—or precisely because of that—each one reveals a lot about me as a person.

Here’s an example from the sixth issue of my column. I’m alone on the bus when I see thirty uniformed police officers waiting at the final stop.

“With every meter the bus rolled closer, I saw my carefully built life flashing before my eyes. I said goodbye to my apartment and wondered if I could sublet it while serving my sentence. I imagined my parents’ prison visits — maybe they’d bring me rehabilitation literature with titles like “Life After Prison: A Ten-Step Action Plan.””

Spoiler: in the end, it was just a regular ticket inspection.

This example clearly shows the writing style of my texts.

Your own writing style doesn’t emerge from rules or clever adjectives—it emerges from recurring patterns of thought and narration. The good news: you already have these patterns. You just need to make them visible.

An exercise to find your writer’s voice

The assignment is simple and yet, I think, brilliant.

Write the same story in three different ways.

It doesn’t matter what you write about. For all I care, you can write about your last trip to the supermarket.

The first version could be a neutral, almost report-like description of what happened.

The next version could be a completely exaggerated, almost absurd take on the situation, filled with hyperbole and internal monologues.

The final version of the story could then explore, with emotional depth, what it did to you when you discovered that your favorite cereal had been discontinued.

I don’t want to tell you what style to write in. After all, the whole point is to experiment with different styles that you could imagine yourself writing in.

As you write, you will almost certainly notice which of the versions comes most naturally to you. Where the sentences seem to flow effortlessly and you feel that little spark after putting a particularly good sentence on the page.

And when one of the styles gives you that feeling, analyze the patterns behind it.

What exactly makes this style yours?

• Do you often think in worst-case scenarios?

• Do you mentally jump into the future?

• Do you observe yourself from the outside?

• Do you work with exaggeration, understatement, or dry humor?

These patterns are not mistakes. They are your style.

Allow yourself to stay the same. Many writers believe they need to reinvent themselves with every text. The opposite is true. Recognition comes from repetition.

Readers return precisely because of this.

Don’t be too hard on yourself if your voice doesn’t reveal itself immediately. When I first started writing, I wrote very emotional texts. Then I realized how much it annoyed me to pull at the heartstrings in every piece—and that I’d rather make others (and myself) smile.

Your writer’s voice will develop over time.

It’s not something you add. It’s something you stop hiding.

The structure

The structure of compelling stories is a science of its own.

I’m a big fan of keep it simple and stupid, so here’s a short excursion into possible structures for a personal column—especially looking at plot-driven vs. character-driven texts.

What fascinates me about short stories and columns is how extremely limited we are. Where digressions and detours are welcome in a novel, there’s simply no room for them in a column. We have to captivate readers in just a few hundred words. That’s an art in itself.

The structure of a personal column closely resembles flash fiction:

• Typically under 1,000 words

• Option A: Plot-driven — the plot happens to the character, forcing them to act; despite its brevity, it needs a narrative arc with character, conflict, and some form of resolution (or implication)

• Option B: Character-driven — focuses on internal motivations, choices, and emotional growth

• Strong impact: aims to leave a lingering impression, like an afterimage

• Implication: often hints at a larger story the reader completes themselves

What does this mean for us as writers of such short texts? As writers, how can we create a text that captivates readers?

This part is reserved for paid subscribers. Here’s what you’ll find in the rest of the post:

• Two essential aspects of your column structure

• Structure of plot-driven vs. character-driven columns

• Two of the most important writing tips for captivating texts

• A practical ten-step guide to get you writing

• A simple writing exercise that truly helps anyone finish a story

Essential structure aspect 1: Quick entry

Whether plot-driven or character-driven, you always start in medias res. In a column, there’s no room for long introductions or backstories.

A quick entry doesn’t mean something spectacular has to happen immediately. It’s enough to land in the middle of a concrete situation.

Here are a few opening lines from my texts:

• I had lived in Hamburg for one year and seven months when, one ordinary Tuesday, I found myself face to face with my first brush with the law.

• When I moved in, I had neglected the small civic duty of introducing myself to the neighbours — a lapse that would soon prove more consequential than expected.

• My day had been an absolute disaster.

• After three days of house-sitting in my tiny hometown, far removed from anything that could reasonably be described as civilization, I had to admit that I was slowly losing my mind.

The first sentence has to land. If the reader isn’t hooked by the first sentence, they likely won’t read another.

Read more

I had spontaneously made plans to go for a drink with a friend and was rushing out of my apartment for absolutely no reason at all. I hate being late. It causes me physical discomfort.

I wasn’t alone in the hallway. The footsteps coming down the stairs could only belong to my upstairs neighbor, whom I hadn't seen since our extremely awkward first encounter, but had heard plenty of in the meantime. From the vocabulary booming through my ceiling, I assumed his latest investment had been a gaming console.

I slowly turned around. My neighbor was wearing a black terry-cloth shirt that looked vaguely like a bathrobe, emblazoned with the words “Keep calm and Trade on” and a replica of a stock chart, paired with tailored suit trousers and bright blue sneakers. It looked absurd. As a progressive city dweller, however, I consciously decided not to let this particular fashion choice influence my opinion of him.

I immediately turned back around and took an unnecessarily long time locking my door. When he walked past me down the stairs, I muttered a busy “Hi,” which he acknowledged with a nod.

Since my door was now more than sufficiently locked, I had no choice but to follow him down the three flights of stairs.

Had the floorboards been replaced? The wooden steps usually creaked under every footfall, but today they were completely silent.

It was like the final thirty seconds of a church’s minute of silence, when the first people slowly start shifting around in their chairs or trying to suppress a cough. Not completely silent, exactly, but so quiet that the silence itself becomes unbearable. At least to me.

On every landing, my neighbor threw a brief, stiff glance over his shoulder. Presumably, he meant for it to look casual. To me, however, it raised the question of what exactly was going through his mind.

What did he expect? That I would suddenly dematerialize? If that had been an option, I can assure you I would have happily taken it.

Or did he think I was following him?

Okay, there had been that one time when I had deliberately intercepted him to try to have a conversation about the noise coming from his apartment (unsuccessfully), but he couldn’t possibly know that.

The floors dragged on like a glacier, and he did not seem particularly eager to pick up the pace. When we finally reached the ground floor, he didn’t hold the door open for me, so I had to contort myself into an unhealthy position and squeeze through a tiny gap to freedom.

Hamburg is a big city. But not quite big enough for me to be surprised when we started walking in the same direction.

This gave the whole situation, I had to admit, a slightly strange aftertaste. Now I had not only followed him out of our apartment building, but was, inevitably, appearing to stalk him in broad daylight, out on the open street.

Every attempt I made to create some distance between us only made me look more suspicious.

At one point, I even bent down to adjust my shoelaces, only to remember that I was wearing sandals with absolutely nothing to adjust. I wasn’t a criminal. But if I had been one, I would have been a spectacularly incompetent one.

My neighbor kept glancing over his shoulder, presumably to check whether he had finally managed to shake me off.

Then he turned onto the exact street where the bar I was meeting my friend at was located.

It was maddening.

As a kind of involuntary displacement activity, I kept walking straight instead of turning onto the same street. I’d take a little detour. It was probably for the best.

Once he was out of sight, I realized just how tense I’d been. I did not like the idea of being branded the Stalker Neighbor, and I was annoyed that I had allowed myself to acquire the title so effortlessly.

For a brief moment, I considered turning around, catching up with him, and explaining the entire situation.

But wouldn’t that be exactly what a stalker would do? I was an amateur in this particular field, so I decided against it.

Once I was reasonably sure my neighbor was no longer anywhere near my destination, I finally made my way to the bar.

I wasn’t going to let this unpleasantness ruin my evening. I was probably overthinking the whole thing anyway. He had probably thought absolutely nothing of my brief pursuit.

When I entered the bar, there was still no sign of my friend.

But sitting at one of the mahogany tables, staring at me with wide eyes, was my neighbor.

Original below (german)

Disclaimer: Wer das vollumfängliche Fremdscham-Erlebnis mitnehmen möchte, dem empfehle ich, vorab die Vorgeschichte in Kolumne #18 zu wälzen.

Ich hatte mich spontan auf einen Drink verabredet und hetzte, wie immer unbegründet gestresst (ich hasse Zuspätkommen, es bereitet mir körperliches Unbehagen), aus der Wohnungstür.

Ich war nicht alleine auf dem Flur. Dem Gang auf den Treppen nach zu urteilen, konnte es sich um keinen Geringeren als den Nachbarn über mir handeln, den ich seit unserer äußerst unangenehmen ersten Begegnung nie wieder gesehen, dafür aber umso öfter gehört hatte. Wie ich seinem durch die Decke dröhnenden Vokabular entnahm, schien seine neueste Investition der Erwerb einer Gaming-Konsole gewesen zu sein.

Langsam drehte ich mich um. Mein Nachbar trug ein schwarzes, bademantelartig anmutendes Frottee-Shirt mit dem Aufdruck „Keep calm and Trade on“ und einer Nachbildung des Aktienkurses, kombiniert mit einer taillierten Anzugshose, wiederum kombiniert mit knallblauen Sneakern. Es sah absurd aus. Als progressive Städlerin entschied ich mich jedoch aktiv dagegen, diesen stilistischen Fehlgriff in meine Meinung über ihn einfließen zu lassen.

Ich wandte mich sofort wieder ab und ließ mir unnötig viel Zeit beim Akt des Türabschließens. Als er an mir vorbei die Treppe hinunterging, murmelte ich ein beschäftigtes „Hi“, was von ihm mit einem Kopfnicken quittiert wurde.

Da meine Tür nun mehr als abgeschlossen war, blieb mir nichts anderes übrig, als hinter ihm die drei Stockwerke herunterzutrotten. Waren die Stufen nachgezogen worden? Die Holzdielen, die für gewöhnlich bei jedem Auftreten knarzten, gaben heute keinen Laut von sich. Es war so leise wie in den letzten dreißig Sekunden einer kirchlichen Schweigeminute, in denen die ersten Leute langsam auf ihren Stühlen herumzurutschen begannen oder ein Husten zu unterdrücken versuchten – also eben nicht komplett still, aber so still, dass es unerträglich war, zumindest für mich.

Auf jeder Mittelebene warf mein Nachbar einen kurzen, steifen Blick über seine Schulter, der vermutlich unauffällig gemeint war, in mir jedoch die Frage aufwarf, was in ihm vorging. Was erwartete er? Dass ich mich plötzlich entmaterialisieren würde? Wenn das im Bereich des Möglichen läge, hätte ich das, da konnte er sich sicher sein, liebend gern getan.

Oder mutmaßte er etwa, dass ich ihn verfolgte? Gut, das eine Mal hatte ich ihn tatsächlich absichtlich abgefangen, um ein Gespräch über seine Wohnlautstärke zu initiieren (erfolglos), aber das konnte er ja nicht wissen.

Die Stockwerke zogen sich wie ein Gletscher und er schien nicht sonderlich bemüht, sein Tempo anzuziehen. Unten angekommen, hielt er mir die Tür nicht auf, sodass ich mich, ungesund verrenkt, durch einen kleinen Spalt nach draußen in die Freiheit kämpfen musste.

Hamburg ist eine große Stadt, aber eben auch nicht so groß, dass es mich wunderte, als wir die gleiche Richtung einschlugen. Das verlieh der ganzen Situation nun, das musste ich selbst zugeben, einen leicht merkwürdigen Beigeschmack. Jetzt war ich ihm nicht nur aus dem Wohnhaus gefolgt, sondern beschattete ihn, so musste es unweigerlich auf ihn wirken, am helllichten Tage auf offener Straße.

Jeder Versuch, die Lage aufzulockern und einen Abstand zwischen uns zu bringen, ließ mich mehr und mehr wie eine Serienstraftäterin dastehen; vor allem, als ich mich nach unten bückte, um meine Schnürsenkel zu justieren, nur um festzustellen, dass ich nicht justierbare Sandalen trug. Ich war zwar keine Kriminelle, aber wenn, dann wäre ich eine peinlich schlechte.

Mein Nachbar blickte sich mehrfach verstohlen um, um zu prüfen, ob er mich abgewimmelt hatte. Dann bog er in genau die Straße ab, in der die Bar lag, in der ich mich verabredet hatte. Es war zum Verrücktwerden. Als Übersprungshandlung lief ich weiter geradeaus, statt ebenfalls abzubiegen. Dann würde ich eben einen kleinen Umweg gehen.

Als er außer Sichtweite war, merkte ich, wie angespannt ich gewesen war. Der Stempel der Stalker-Nachbarin gefiel mir ganz und gar nicht und es ärgerte mich, dass ich ihn mir so leichtfertig aufdrücken ließ. Kurz war ich versucht, umzukehren, ihn einzuholen und die ganze Sache klarzustellen; aber wäre das nicht genau das, was ein Stalker tun würde? Ich war eine Laiin auf diesem Gebiet, also ließ ich es.

Als ich mir sicher sein konnte, dass mein Nachbar sich nicht mehr in meiner Zielstraße aufhalten würde, machte ich mich auf den Weg zur Bar. Ich würde mir den Abend von diesem Unangenehmnis nicht verderben lassen. Vermutlich interpretierte ich abermals zu viel in die Situation hinein und er dachte sich rein gar nichts bei meiner kurzen Verfolgung. Ja, so war es.

Als ich die Bar betrat, war von meiner Verabredung noch keine Spur zu sehen. Wer hingegen an einem der Mahagoni-Tische saß und mich nun mit weiten Augen anstarrte, war mein Nachbar.

about the author

Hi, I’m Lina. A little over two years ago, I left my life by the sea behind to start over in Germany’s second-largest city.

After many years away from writing, I picked it up again in the summer of 2025. But instead of writing the novel I had always imagined, I chose short-form writing because it fit my life better.

That’s how my personal column was born – a place where I write about the ordinary moments of everyday life, and the stories hiding inside them.

Here on Substack, I also share ideas, practical guides, and reflections for writers who want to build a writing practice that fits their life, rather than waiting for the perfect circumstances.

Subscribe now

And this is coming from someone who used to be convinced that publishing a novel was the ultimate achievement. I held on to the idea of writing my own novel without actually writing for years. Simply because it never fit into the circumstances of my life.

But if you spend all your time dreaming about writing without ever actually writing, you will quickly realize, once you finally pick up the pen, that you might have a great idea – but you don’t actually know your own writer’s voice yet.

And that voice, surprise, doesn’t form overnight. It develops through one thing and one thing only:

Writing.

A lot of writing.

In this article, I invite you to get closer to your own writer’s voice through short-form writing. Maybe as preparation for writing your own novel. Or maybe simply because short-form writing can bring you closer to yourself.

Before you write a novel, write 50 small things

Short-form pieces are excellent places to find your voice.

A novel can make people feel they need to arrive with a voice already formed, polished, literary, perhaps wearing spectacles.

A short piece lets you experiment your way toward one.

One week you might write something reflective and melancholic. The next, a petty manifesto against stand-up comedy.

Because the stakes feel lower, you take more risks. And style often reveals itself through repeated risks.

I’ve learned more about my own writer’s voice through short columns than through any long-form project I’ve attempted.

Mostly because short pieces let you practice the actual craft in miniature. They teach compression without shallowness, sharpen your sense of rhythm, and force you to care about beginnings and endings in a way longer projects sometimes let you avoid.

In a small space, every sentence suddenly has to earn its keep.

People often think short-form writing is easier because it is shorter. I think the opposite is often true. Writing briefly without becoming shallow is a discipline. And it teaches precision.

Why even develop a writer’s voice?

Your writer’s voice gives your text its recognizability. The goal here is that someone could steal an unpublished text of yours, publish it on their blog as their own – and your loyal readers would still immediately sense that something is off.

Admittedly, that’s a rather egocentric goal and somewhat exaggerated. But it illustrates how important it is to integrate your own touch into your writing.

Let’s look at my column again as an example. The defining characteristics of my texts are:

• I am an overthinker and dissect every interaction I have with strangers.

• I have a very vivid imagination and love processing it in my columns.

• I love hyperbole and find it extremely funny to use it to create a very specific kind of sarcasm.

What defines my column is how I think about everyday life and how I put those thoughts into words. As mentioned before, nothing dramatically exciting usually happens in my texts. And yet – or precisely because of that – each one reveals a lot about me as a person.

Here’s an example from the sixth issue of my column. I’m alone on the bus when I see thirty uniformed police officers waiting at the final stop.

“With every meter the bus rolled closer, I saw my carefully built life flashing before my eyes. I said goodbye to my apartment and wondered if I could sublet it while serving my sentence. I imagined my parents’ prison visits—maybe they’d bring me rehabilitation literature with titles like ‘Life After Prison: A Ten-Step Action Plan.’”

Spoiler: in the end, it was just a regular ticket inspection.

This example clearly shows the writing style of my texts.

A writing exercise to get closer to your writer’s voice

Your own writer’s voice doesn’t emerge from rules or clever adjectives – it emerges from recurring patterns of thought and narration. The good news: you already have these patterns. You just need to make them visible.

This exercise will help.

The assignment is simple and yet, I think, brilliant.

Write the same story in three different ways.

It doesn’t matter what you write about. For all I care, you can write about your last trip to the supermarket.

The first version could be a neutral, almost report-like description of what happened.

The next version could be a completely exaggerated, almost absurd take on the situation, filled with hyperbole and internal monologues.

The final version of the story could then explore, with emotional depth, what it did to you when you discovered that your favorite cereal had been discontinued.

I don’t want to tell you what style to write in. After all, the whole point is to experiment with different styles that you could imagine yourself writing in.

As you write, you will almost certainly notice which of the versions comes most naturally to you. Where the sentences seem to flow effortlessly and you feel that little spark after putting a particularly good sentence on the page.

And when one of the styles gives you that feeling, analyze the patterns behind it.

What exactly makes this style yours?

• Do you often think in worst-case scenarios?

• Do you mentally jump into the future?

• Do you observe yourself from the outside?

• Do you work with exaggeration, understatement, or dry humor?

These patterns are not mistakes. They are your style.

Allow yourself to stay the same. Many writers believe they need to reinvent themselves with every text. The opposite is true. Recognition comes from repetition.

Readers return precisely because of this.

Don’t be too hard on yourself if your voice doesn’t reveal itself immediately. Like I stated in the beginning, when I first started, I wrote very emotional texts. Then I realized how much it annoyed me to pull at the heartstrings in every piece—and that I’d rather make others (and myself) smile.

Your writer’s voice will develop over time.

It’s not something you add. It’s something you stop hiding.

about the author

Hi, I’m Lina. A little over two years ago, I left my life by the sea behind to start over in Germany’s second-largest city.

After many years away from writing, I picked it up again in the summer of 2025. But instead of writing the novel I had always imagined, I chose short-form writing because it fit my life better.

That’s how my personal column was born – a place where I write about the ordinary moments of everyday life, and the stories hiding inside them.

Here on Substack, I also share ideas, practical guides, and reflections for writers who want to build a writing practice that fits their life, rather than waiting for the perfect circumstances.

Subscribe now

Over the years, I’ve often noticed the parallels between his profession and mine—literature. At the end of the day, we’re both obsessed with good stories.

A few weeks ago, he sent me a TikTok.

In it, filmmaker and comedian Zach Cregger introduces a screenwriting technique that is supposed to outsmart your analytical brain and help you overcome writer’s block.

I liked the video immediately.

I’d never heard of Zach before, but his idea struck a nerve. Which isn’t particularly surprising – writer’s block is something most creative people are familiar with.

Rarely, however, do I watch a video like this and immediately feel the urge to put its idea into practice.

With Zach’s video, it was different.

I wrote my latest column right after watching it.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

I didn’t write it alone.

I wrote it together with an elf.

This article is about that elf – and what he did to my column.

an elf wrote my column

At this point, it’s probably a good idea that I explain Zach Cregger’s method before you conclude that I’ve completely lost my mind.

It’s called Elfing, and it is exactly what it sounds like.

You let an elf write your story.

how elfing works

Elfing is a screenwriting technique designed to overcome writer’s block.

Here’s how it works:

1. Convince yourself that you’ve hired a tiny elf to write your story. Let’s say you paid him ten dollars. That’s obviously far too little, but that’s okay, because...

2. Assume that the elf isn’t particularly bright and will probably do a terrible job. Which isn’t a big deal – you only paid him ten dollars. What exactly were you expecting?

3. Write the story from the elf’s perspective. By pretending that someone else is writing it, you temporarily free yourself from your own ego and give yourself permission to write carelessly – or even badly. If one terrible sentence follows another, it doesn’t matter. You didn’t write them. The elf did.

If you’d like to learn more about the technique, here’s the TikTok that introduced it:

@smg12768#screenwriting #filmtok #cinema

Tiktok failed to load.

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what elfing did to my column

My latest column was written by the elf.

Since the next section is all about the writing process and what I learned from it, I’d recommend quickly reading the column first:

First, I want to show you what the Elfing draft actually looked like.

“I want to buy myself flowers because I’ve had a stressful day. At the flower shop, I put together a bouquet with the florist. The customer who came in after me watches every decision with a critical expression. I wonder what her problem is. When the bouquet is finished, she scoffs, and I wait anxiously for her verdict.

‘I’d like exactly the same bouquet, please.’”

Far too short, far too plain to become a truly good column.

But that was precisely the point.

The goal wasn’t to write a finished piece. The goal was to create a basic framework in which the story could exist.

What the writing process felt like – and what I learned from it – is what the next part is about.

Read more

Since I wasn’t willing to resort to either extreme sports or recreational drugs as an outlet for my stress, I followed a spontaneous impulse and opted for what, in my opinion, came closest: buying myself a bouquet of flowers.

I had always had a fairly clear idea of what my bouquets should look like. Unfortunately, since I am not a botanist, the communication between me and my trusted florist was largely limited to me pointing at various flowers. This usually made composing the bouquet a rather cumbersome affair, not least because the shop was incredibly winding. At one point, this elaborate game of floral charades nearly resulted in me falling face-first into a bouquet of particularly thorny roses.

A strikingly beautiful woman, whom I guessed to be in her mid-fifties, entered the flower shop behind me.

Her presence seemed to change the energy of the entire room the moment she walked in. She was the kind of woman who radiated such profound inner contentment and confidence that you could almost be blinded by it.

The owner asked me what I had in mind for the bouquet, and in the woman’s presence I suddenly felt almost embarrassed to describe my vision.

As the florist and I squeezed our way through the rows of flowers together, I couldn’t help noticing her critical expression. It felt as though she was silently putting every one of my decisions through an invisible examination.

At that particular moment, I didn’t seem to be passing.

When I paired an exotic flower with a native one, I was almost certain I heard her scoff. From that moment on, I became convinced that she hated the bouquet.

Like a thoroughly defeated dog, I walked to the register to collect the bouquet, now wrapped in crisp white paper.

As I squeezed past the woman, she gave the arrangement one final long look, her expression still perfectly serious.

“Good afternoon,” she said.

“I’d like exactly the same bouquet.”

Original below (german)

Mein Tag war das reinste Desaster gewesen. Weil ich weder von der Ausübung etwaiger Extremsportarten noch der Einnahme von Drogen als Ventil für meinen Stress Gebrauch machen wollte, entschied ich mich, einem spontanen Impuls folgend, für das, was dem aus meiner Sicht am nächsten käme: für den Erwerb eines Blumenstraußes.

Ich hatte stets eine ziemlich genaue Vorstellung davon, wie meine Sträuße auszusehen hatten – weil sich meine botanischen Kenntnisse aber in Grenzen halten, beschränkte sich die Kommunikation zwischen mir und dem Floristen meines Vertrauens darauf, dass ich auf alle möglichen Blumen deutete; was die Komposition des Straußes zumeist recht schwerfällig gestaltete, denn der Laden war unglaublich verwinkelt. Einmal wäre ich infolge dieses Pantomimespiels fast in einen Strauß auffällig dorniger Rosen gefallen.

Hinter mir betrat auch eine umwerfende Frau, ich schätzte sie auf Mitte fünfzig, den Blumenladen. Mit ihrer Ausstrahlung schien sie sofort die Energie des gesamten Ladens zu verändern. Sie war die Art Frau, die eine solche innere Zufriedenheit und Selbstvertrauen ausstrahlte, dass man davon fast geblendet wurde.

Der Inhaber fragte mich nach meiner Vorstellung für den Strauß und in Anwesenheit der Frau war es mir fast peinlich, meine Idee zu beschreiben. Während er und ich uns gemeinsam durch die Reihen zwängten, entging mir ihr kritischer Blick nicht. Es war, als würde sie jede meiner Entscheidungen einer unsichtbaren Prüfung unterziehen. Und im Moment schien ich nicht sonderlich gut abzuschneiden.

Einmal, als ich eine exotische mit einer heimischen Blumenart kombinierte, meinte ich sie sogar schnauben zu hören und war mir ab diesem Zeitpunkt sicher, dass sie den Strauß abgrundtief hasste.

Wie ein geprügelter Hund trat ich an die Kasse, um den nun in weißes Papier eingeschlagenen Strauß entgegenzunehmen.

Als ich mich an der Frau vorbeischob, blickte sie noch ein letztes Mal mit ernster Miene auf das Werk.

„Guten Tag, ich hätte gerne einmal genau den gleichen Strauß.“

about the author

Hi, I’m Lina. A little over two years ago, I left my life by the sea behind to start over in Germany’s second-largest city.

After many years away from writing, I picked it up again in the summer of 2025. But instead of writing the novel I had always imagined, I chose short-form writing because it fit my life better.

That’s how my personal column was born – a place where I write about the ordinary moments of everyday life, and the stories hiding inside them.

Here on Substack, I also share ideas, practical guides, and reflections for writers who want to build a writing practice that fits their life, rather than waiting for the perfect circumstances.

Subscribe now

And all I can think is this: I want to spend this summer writing. Not necessarily for hours every day. Not finishing a novel. Just paying closer attention.

Last month, I published 50 writing prompts for people who think their life is too boring to write about. I honestly didn’t expect hundreds of people to start writing because of that article.

So here’s another collection.

Forget hot girl summer. This is our hot writers summer.

prompts for paying attention

I found that summer makes people behave differently.

Pay attention.

1. Describe the first moment this year that actually felt like summer.

2. Describe the atmosphere of a park on a warm evening.

3. Write about someone reading alone outside.

4. Describe what people carry with them during summer.

5. Write about the soundtrack of your neighborhood with the windows open.

6. Describe a conversation you accidentally overheard.

7. Write about the busiest ice cream shop you know.

8. Describe the smell of your city on a hot day.

9. Write about the most summery thing you saw this week.

10. Write about a stranger you only saw for thirty seconds.

prompts for slow days

Some of the best stories happen when nothing appears to happen.

1. Describe an afternoon in summer that felt beautifully unproductive.

2. Write about sitting somewhere longer than necessary.

3. Describe watching clouds without pretending it was mindfulness.

4. Write about the last time you completely lost track of time.

5. Describe a place where you would happily spend an entire afternoon.

6. Write about doing absolutely nothing.

7. Describe your favorite summer ritual.

8. Write about an evening you wished lasted another hour.

9. Describe your walk home after sunset.

10. Write about a day that felt wonderfully ordinary.

prompts about travel

Not every journey changes your life. Some simply give you good material.

1. Write about the journey instead of the destination.

2. Describe the contents of someone’s beach bag.

3. Write about a train ride through summer landscapes.

4. Describe the first café you visit somewhere unfamiliar.

5. Write about getting slightly lost.

6. Describe a hotel room you’ll probably never see again.

7. Write about the feeling of coming home after travelling.

8. Describe a place you’ll probably never return to.

9. Write about something you packed but never used.

10. Describe the view from your holiday window.

So far we’ve covered observation, slow days, and summer travels.

Behind the paywall you’ll find prompts about memories, people, warm evenings, tiny adventures, and those wonderfully ordinary moments that somehow only seem to happen in summer.

Read more

For days, I hadn’t spoken to anyone except the brusque woman at the bakery in the neighboring village. During my first visit, she dismissed me with visible contempt after I asked whether they had oat milk instead of cow’s milk for my coffee. By the second visit – despite the fact that I had lowered my expectations considerably and merely intended to buy a plain filter coffee – she didn’t even greet me anymore.

By the fourth day, I realized I could no longer remember the sound of my own voice. As a consequence, I had taken up talking to myself.

In a brief moment of mental clarity, I decided that something had to be done. I got into my car and drove to the nearest small town.

Like a kitchen sponge that has spent weeks waiting beside the sink for its moment to shine, I absorbed every conversation that drifted past me. I smiled at strangers far more enthusiastically than is considered socially acceptable here in northern Germany.

Everything about me radiated one message:

I am available for small talk.

As it turned out, only one person accepted the invitation.

I was strolling past a liquor store when the owner stepped outside.

“Young lady,” he said, “you look like someone who appreciates a good whisky.”

I didn’t hesitate for a second.

“Absolutely,” I bursted out.

It sounded almost suspiciously enthusiastic, which would make it considerably harder to keep my lie alive over the next few minutes.

The truth was that I – very much like my mother – hated whisky.

“Perfect,” he said. “Come inside. I’ve just received something extraordinary.”

The shop smelled of wood and smoke, and for a brief moment I found myself wondering whether passive alcohol consumption might exist in the same way passive smoking does.

The man handed me a round glass filled with an amber-colored liquid.

A wave of panic rose inside me. I had absolutely no idea how one was supposed to taste whisky.

Was I meant to spit it out afterwards, like at a wine tasting? Perhaps gargling was involved to unlock the full aroma? Surely whisky enthusiasts followed a complicated set of rituals – and I knew none of them.

So I opted for what seemed like the safest strategy. I swirled the glass casually and lifted it to my nose. Instantly, my eyes filled with tears. It smelled like industrial cleaning alcohol and poor decision-making.

I forced a smile and tried not to blink, worried that a single tear might betray me.

After taking a deep breath, I raised the glass again – this time to take a sip. It tasted astonishingly alcoholic.

An involuntary “Mmm...” escaped my lips as I desperately searched for composure, which the shop owner interpreted as genuine delight.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” he said proudly. “Aged in bourbon casks. Sixty percent alcohol.”

I, now experiencing another hot flush for entirely different reasons, managed only:

“Yes... you can definitely taste that.”

“Wonderful,” he beamed. “Shall I wrap up a bottle for you?”

And that is how I ended up paying a truly outrageous price for a brief conversation – and why my father unexpectedly received an extra birthday present.

Original below (german)

Nach drei Tagen Housesitting in meinem Heimatdorf fern der Zivilisation wurde ich, so musste ich mir eingestehen, langsam wahnsinnig.

Ich hatte seit Tagen mit niemandem außer der brüsken Bäckereifachverkäuferin im Ort nebenan gesprochen, die mich bei meinem ersten Besuch abwertend abwies, als ich nach Hafer- statt Kuhmilch für meinen Kaffee fragte, und die mich beim zweiten Mal, obwohl ich dieses Mal vorhatte, einen simplen Filterkaffee zu erwerben, schon gar nicht mehr grüßte.

Als ich mich dann am vierten Tag nicht mehr an meine eigene Stimme erinnern konnte und als Konsequenz daraus Selbstgespräche für mich entdeckte, entschloss ich mich in einem Moment kurzer Geistesgegenwärtigkeit, der Einsamkeit den Kampf anzusagen. Ich fuhr kurzerhand in die nächstgelegene Kleinstadt.

Wie ein wochenlang am Spülbecken auf seinen Einsatz wartender Spülschwamm sog ich die Gespräche der vorbeiziehenden Menschen in mich auf und lächelte sie breiter an, als hier im Norden Deutschlands sozial akzeptiert war.

Alles an mir strahlte aus, dass ich bereit für unverfänglichen Smalltalk war.

Ein verkaufswütiger Ladenbesitzer sollte letztendlich die einzige Person sein, die diese Gelegenheit beim Schopfe packte.

Ich stolzierte gerade an seinem Spirituosengeschäft vorbei, als er mich ansprach:

„Junge Dame, Sie sehen aus, als würden Sie einen guten Whisky zu schätzen wissen.“

Ich überlegte keine Sekunde.

„Absolut!“, brach es aus mir heraus.

Das klang nun fast schon zu euphorisch und würde es im weiteren Verlauf schwierig machen, meine Lüge nicht auffliegen zu lassen.

Die Wahrheit war, dass ich Whisky – und da kam ich ganz nach meiner Mutter – scheußlich fand.

„Perfekt, kommen Sie, ich hab da gerade was ganz Tolles reinbekommen.“

Im Laden selbst roch es nach Holz und Rauch, und ich war mir plötzlich nicht mehr sicher, ob passiver Alkoholkonsum – ganz wie Passivrauchen – nicht doch auch im Bereich des Möglichen lag.

Verheißungsvoll reichte mir der Herr ein bauchiges Glas bernsteinfarbenen Inhalts. In mir stieg Hitze hoch.

Ich hatte keine Ahnung davon, wie Whisky verkostet wurde. Sollte ich, wie beim Weintasting, den Inhalt wieder ausspucken? Vielleicht musste er auch gegurgelt werden, um den vollen Geschmack zu entfalten?

In der Welt des Whiskys gab es sicherlich viele Regeln, und ich kannte keine davon.

Ich entschied mich für die meiner Einschätzung nach sicherste Variante. Lässig schwenkte ich das Glas und hob es an meine Nase, um an der Flüssigkeit zu riechen. Sofort stiegen mir Tränen in die Augen.

Es roch nach Brennspiritus und nach einer schlechten Idee.

Ich warf ihm ein gezwungenes Lächeln zu und versuchte, nicht zu blinzeln, um keine Träne zu verlieren.

Tief einatmend hob ich das Glas erneut an, dieses Mal, um einen Schluck zu nehmen. Es war unglaublich spritig, und mir entfuhr ein nach Fassung japsendes „Mhhh“, was der Mann als Zeichen des Genusses missverstand.

„Grandios, nicht wahr? Im Bourbonfass gelagert. Originalfassstärke: 60 Prozent Alkohol.“

Ich, die nun aus einem ganz anderen Grund erneut einen Hitzeanfall erlitt, brachte nur ein gequältes „Ja, das schmeckt man.“ heraus.

„Prima, also nehmen Sie eine Flasche?“

Und so kam es, dass ich einen horrenden Preis für eine Konversation zahlte und, dass mein Vater sich über ein zusätzliches Geburtstagsgeschenk freuen durfte.

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Until last summer.

Last summer, after a long break, I started writing again because I finally let go of the belief that I had to write a novel in order to be a writer. Instead, I turned to short-form writing.

At first, I wrote only for myself. After a few weeks, I started posting about the concept of the personal column on TikTok. I received countless messages asking whether I could also publish my column on Substack – and turned every single one of them down.

I felt like I would be revealing an incredibly large part of myself if I published my writing. It felt terrifying. Until I realized that I had spent far too long staying inside my comfort zone.

Since September of last year, I haven’t just been writing for myself anymore. Every week, I’ve been sharing both my column and my thoughts on writing here on Substack. Since then, there have only been two weekends without a new post. This will be my 45th article.

Today I’ll show you how I went from simply thinking “I want to write” to becoming a writer – one who now even gets paid for it on Substack (what?!) – in less than a year, despite working full-time and having a very busy social life.

How to publish weekly: the groundwork

1. Be clear about why you want to publish

Obviously, you don’t have to publish your writing on Substack – or anywhere else – to be a writer. You can simply write for yourself.

But sooner or later, many writers feel the urge to let their words out into the world. And I honestly think Substack is a wonderful place to do exactly that.

As lovely as this Substack bubble is, though, it isn’t waiting for you. Very few people publish their first article and immediately go viral, building a thriving community that’s eagerly waiting for the next post.

Instead, this is the reality: it might take months (or even years) before anyone reads your writing at all.

That’s why you need to be clear about why you want to publish in the first place.

For me, this has never primarily been a way to generate income. Of course, it’s a wonderful side effect, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with building a publication because you want to earn money.

My why is something else.

It’s the messages I receive.

People in their seventies telling me that my writing helped them see the world through different eyes again.

People who, like me, hadn’t written for years and who tell me that my articles inspired them to pick up a pen again.

Messages saying that after an unbelievably awful week, my writing made them laugh for the first time.

That’s my why.

And it’s that why that brings me back to my notebook every single week.

2. Create accountability

Sometimes your why won’t be enough. After a stressful week, it might fade into the background. You won’t feel ready to publish an article.

And that’s okay.

No one is forcing you to publish every week.

So I can only speak for myself here: if I had only published on the weeks when I felt ready or when I happened to have plenty of time, my archive would look rather empty.

I didn’t feel ready to share my first column.

I didn’t feel ready to publish my first paid article.

But I did it anyway.

Besides my why, one thing helped me tremendously: accountability.

Since January, I’ve opened paid memberships for my publication.

That means there are people paying to learn from me. People trusting that my writing will inspire them on a regular basis.

Whenever my why begins to waver, the promise I’ve made to my community becomes the motivation that brings me back to my desk – even during the busiest weeks.

Perhaps this makes it sound like I’m hard on myself for not taking breaks from writing.

But here’s the thing:

I’ve already had that break. It lasted for years. And during that time, I lost an integral part of myself.

So yes, sometimes writing consistently will be difficult.

But how difficult is life for a writer who no longer writes?

3. Find a format that fits your life

To publish every week I needed a format that was short enough to squeeze into a busy week, but flexible enough to let me write about whatever crossed my mind.

That format is, of course, my personal column – a column in which I write about ordinary everyday life.

A personal column is a short narrative text that focuses on one specific topic. It turns personal experiences, thoughts, or observations into a story.

For me, this format is perfect.

Every week: one topic. One small story. A beginning and an ending. And then I get to start again.

But of course, a column doesn’t have to be your format. There are many forms of writing that can easily fit into a busy life. Let it be observation notes, book reviews, short stories, short essays – you name it.

Alongside my column, I’ve introduced another format that fits naturally into my life because I’m constantly thinking about it anyway: the writing process itself.

So whenever I’m not writing my column, I’m writing about writing.

My plea is simple: write in forms your life can actually hold. Write briefly when that is what fits. Write often enough that the thread doesn’t break. Let small forms carry the writing life until, perhaps, they become the writing life.

4. The “thinking is writing” framework

Opinions differ on this, but I’m convinced of one thing: writing begins long before you ever pick up a pen.

The only reason I’m able to publish an article every week is because I usually decide at the beginning of the week what I want to write about the following weekend.

That allows me to spend the entire week thinking about the topic.

By the time Saturday and Sunday arrive, sitting down to write no longer feels overwhelming.

Which brings us to the next part:

The actual writing.

How to publish weekly: the actual writing

Once you’ve laid the groundwork, you’re already one step further—at least in theory. But publishing every week (and by the way, “every week” is simply the rhythm that works for me. Maybe for you it’s every other week or once a month. The point is consistency.) also requires one thing: the writing process itself.

This is what my writing process looks like when I’m publishing another column. I’ve shared this example in another article before, and I think it illustrates quite well how Substack can fit into a busy week.

Monday

After work I meet friends. On the train home I write down a random sentence in my notes that has been floating around in my head all day.

Tuesday

After a long workday I read for ten minutes and then fall asleep with the book in my hand. It hits my face.

Wednesday

I panic slightly while trying to remember if anything interesting happened this week that could become a column. Eventually I end up writing about cleaning my windows.

While brushing my teeth, I think about the emotional core of the story and come up with the first and last sentence. I don’t write them down, but that’s okay. They’re in my head.

Thursday

I’m out from morning until almost midnight. On the train I do a crossword puzzle and discover an interesting word I might use in the column.

Friday

I think of a joke in the shower. I jot it down on my phone right there and then, and narrowly avoid a household accident because I almost slip in the shower due to my exuberance.

Saturday

My whole day is planned, but I take 30 minutes to write the first draft. I already know the opening and closing line, so the structure is there.

After that, I close my notebook for the rest of the day.

Sunday

During my morning walk I think of a weak spot in the story and rewrite it in my head. In the evening I spend about an hour editing the draft.

And suddenly I’m holding a story that feels… pretty decent.

1. Make decisions before you write

As you can see from the example, a lot of the writing happens inside my head.

More specifically, there are usually eight decisions I make before I ever put pen to paper.

• deciding on a structure

• finding the right topic

• deciding on a style

• clarifying the emotional core of the story

• deciding what changes in the story

• deciding which version of yourself is telling the story

• deciding what to leave out

• determining the first and last sentence

Everything above is the framework. Everything below is the part I actually use when I write.

I’ll walk you through each of these eight decisions, show you the questions I ask myself before every article, explain why most drafts fall apart, and share the exact process that has allowed me to publish 45 articles in a row while working full-time.

If you’d like to steal my writing process, this is where it starts.

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Before I started my column, things looked different.

For months, I plotted stories in my head. I spun narrative threads, developed characters, and invested a surprising amount of energy into a book that never actually made it onto the page.

Though that is only half the truth.

A few fragments did make it out. Sometimes entire sentences, sometimes only a handful of words. They slipped into my notes app and settled there.

Most of them arrived during walks. Others appeared on trains or somewhere between the tomatoes and cucumbers at the supermarket.

A particularly inconsiderate number of them arrived in the middle of the night, demanding immediate attention with all the subtlety of a screaming infant.

The list of these fragments has become quite long.

Every time I open it, I find myself smiling a little sadly.

Most of them will probably never make it into my novel because, quite frankly, I may never write that novel.

So I thought they might as well live here instead, tucked between my short-form pieces.

What follows, in completely random order, are excerpts from a book that may never exist.

A book that, I would like to stress, has absolutely nothing to do with my own life.

Any similarities are therefore purely coincidental.

1. I cried for three days straight and only stopped on the fourth because a Reddit forum informed me that dehydration accelerates the breakdown of lip filler. I was sad, but not sad enough to risk the €500 I had recently invested.

2. I knew immediately that he was no longer married because he held the hug a little longer than usual and left his phone face-up on the table at the Italian restaurant.

3. A wonderfully quiet sense of diligence had crept into the office.

4. He bit into his carrot with such satisfaction that every subsequent crunch filled me with a wave of nausea toward my colleague, whose only crime had been finding joy in something as trivial as a vegetable.

5. So moving to the big city had improved my life in every conceivable way. At least on the days when I was able to ignore the persistent smell of urine lingering on every corner. Fortunately, that was most days.

6. Slowly, the thought began to take shape inside me...

7. unanimously

8. For a while, I lived by the principle of “do it for the plot,” and around that same time, events began escalating at an alarming rate.

9. This was irritating for multiple reasons.

10. I had never canceled one of our meetings, not even that one time when I was hit by a car the morning before and had to get thirteen stitches in my knee from an impatient doctor whose attitude made me feel like I should apologize for having been hit by a drunk driver.

11. I operated according to the philosophy that...

12. It was wonderful and terrible at the same time.

13. It was as if all the misfortune in the world were crashing down on me in a torrent.

14. A quiet premonition crept over me of what the next three months were going to look like for me.

15. On day three of my lingering cold, I decided to take my recovery into my own hands.

16. I had the feeling we could have done a remarkably good job at this relationship if only he had allowed us to.

I used to think unfinished writing was evidence of failure.

These days, I think of it differently.

Not every idea is supposed to become a book. Some are destined to grow into essays. Some spend years living rent-free inside a notes app, contributing absolutely nothing except occasional emotional support.

Which brings me to my question:

Do you also have a graveyard of unfinished sentences somewhere?

And if so, what is the best one that never found a home?

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You do not, in fact, lack ideas.

Many of you wrote to me saying you suddenly had too many things you could write about. Which is, admittedly, a much nicer problem to have.

But a new question appeared almost immediately:

“How do I actually start?”

Which, again, is a very fair question.

Because even when you do have an idea, the blank page can still feel strangely hostile. You sit down. You open your document. You know roughly what you want to say.

And then… nothing happens. Not because the idea isn’t there. But because you don’t know how to enter it.

So this article is not about what to write.

It is about how to begin. Over the past weeks, I collected some sentence starters for you.

Because once you have the first sentence, the rest tends to follow with significantly less emotional resistance.

how to use these openings

I would strongly recommend not trying to find the perfect opening.

That is one of the fastest ways to never begin.

Instead, treat these as entry points. Ways into a piece. Some will feel natural. Others slightly uncomfortable. A few may feel almost suspiciously simple.

That’s usually a good sign. You can always refine the opening later. What matters is that it gets you moving.

Because writing, much like swimming, becomes significantly easier once you are no longer standing at the edge overthinking it.

direct openings

Sometimes the best way to start is to simply begin. No warm-up. No scene-setting. Just the thought itself.

1. I used to believe that…

2. Most people think…

3. I recently realized that…

4. There is something strange about…

5. I have been thinking about…

6. This might sound dramatic, but…

7. I didn’t expect this to matter, but…

8. I have a theory about…

9. The problem with this is…

10. I don’t think we talk enough about…

These work particularly well when your piece is built around a clear idea or argument.

moment-based openings

If your writing leans more narrative, start inside a moment. Not the whole story. Just one specific entry point.

11. I was standing in line when…

12. On my way home, I noticed…

13. Yesterday, something small happened…

14. It started with a completely ordinary moment…

15. I didn’t think much of it at first…

16. Somewhere between X and Y, I realized…

17. It was one of those situations where…

18. I found myself in a place I didn’t quite belong…

19. At some point, things became slightly absurd…

20. I should have left earlier, but…

These openings work because they create immediate context without overexplaining.

observational openings

This is where a lot of your writing already lives. A small observation, taken seriously.

21. There is a specific kind of person who…

22. You can tell a lot about someone by…

23. Every city has that one place where…

24. There is something deeply strange about…

25. I have noticed that people tend to…

26. Some moments feel more significant than they should…

27. There is a certain type of silence that…

28. People rarely admit that…

29. It’s interesting how often we…

30. I find it fascinating that…

These are excellent for essays that move from observation into reflection.

So far, we’ve covered direct openings, moments, and observations — which, if we’re being honest, already cover a concerning percentage of all good writing.

If you’re anything like me, you now have at least three half-started pieces in your head and a vague sense that you should cancel your plans for the afternoon.

Behind the paywall, things become slightly more personal.

We move into uncomfortable honesty, self-inflicted psychological observations, and a category of openings that probably take small situations far more seriously than they deserve.

In other words: the good stuff.

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More specifically: the lack of it.

I thought writing required long, uninterrupted stretches. Quiet mornings. Evenings free of obligations. Entire weekends dedicated to producing something meaningful.

Ideally, that something would be a novel.

Which, as it turns out, is a fairly demanding standard to set for yourself when your average day consists of emails, errands, and wondering what to cook for dinner.

Because I didn’t have the time to write a novel — or believed I didn’t — I slowly stopped writing altogether.

Not dramatically. There was no clear decision.

Just a quiet postponing.

I would write later. When things calmed down. When I had more time. When I could do it properly.

None of that ever happened.

And in the absence of writing, something else happened instead.

I stopped paying attention.

Days blurred together. Moments passed without leaving much of a trace. Nothing felt particularly worth capturing, which conveniently confirmed my original belief: I simply didn’t have material.

It took me longer than I would like to admit to realize this:

The problem was never just time.

The problem was that I had quietly trained myself to overlook everything that could have been written down.

the misunderstanding that keeps people stuck

Most people think writing starts with having something meaningful to say.

Which sounds logical until you actually try to do it.

Because meaningful thoughts rarely arrive fully formed. They do not descend from the heavens carrying narrative structure and a satisfying thematic conclusion.

Most writing begins as something much smaller.

It might appear as a slightly strange interaction you cannot quite explain. Sometimes it is just a sentence you overhear that feels oddly precise. On other days, it takes the form of a very specific irritation that refuses to go away. None of these moments look like writing at first glance, so they get dismissed.

People assume they don’t have ideas, when in reality they are discarding them at a remarkable speed.

what changed for me

What changed for me was not that my life suddenly became more interesting.

I regret to inform you that I still spend a substantial amount of time thinking about pastries and mildly awkward social interactions.

The real shift was attention.

Once I started writing regularly, I began moving through the world differently. Not in a tortured-artist way. More in a quietly observant way. Moments stopped feeling disposable.

A conversation at a bakery suddenly carried texture. An uncomfortable silence during dinner became emotionally interesting instead of merely unpleasant. Even my own overthinking began to feel less like a personal flaw and more like source material. Which, frankly, has been enormously helpful for morale.

I started realizing that most moments already contain something worth noticing. The problem is that we are trained to overlook them because they do not immediately appear important.

But writing does not actually require importance; it requires attention.

attention changes the texture of your life

This may be my favorite side effect of writing.

The world becomes more alive. Not because reality changes, but because your relationship to it changes.

You begin paying attention to details that previously dissolved into the background. The specific way someone laughs when they are nervous. The strange dignity of an elderly man carrying tulips home on the train. The fact that every person in a café somehow looks deeply intellectual until you overhear the actual conversation.

A surprising amount of adulthood is just people confidently discussing air fryers.

But even that becomes interesting when you are paying attention properly.

Writing consistently has made me feel more present inside my own life. Days no longer pass with the same blur-like quality they once had. Small moments stay intact longer because I notice them while they are happening.

And perhaps more importantly: Very little feels entirely wasted anymore. Awkward conversations begin to carry narrative potential instead of mild regret. Even boring train rides develop a certain observational charm. Occasionally, deeply humbling experiences turn into material faster than you would like.

Everything becomes usable.

the problem is not ideas

I genuinely believe most people do not lack ideas.

They lack trust in small ones. They assume a story must begin with something dramatic. A breakup. A life change. A profound revelation during a solo trip to Italy where they suddenly understand themselves while eating olives.

In reality, many stories begin with something almost stupidly small.

You might find yourself in a gallery, politely pretending to understand art while counting seconds in your head. On another day, you develop a surprising emotional attachment to a cashier who once remembered your name. Occasionally, you end up trapped in a conversation about handmade soap, searching for an exit that feels socially acceptable.

That is often enough.

The moment itself is rarely the entire point anyway. What matters is the meaning, tension, insecurity, humor, or observation attached to it.

Small moments are simply doors into larger thoughts.

the beautiful thing about short form

This is also why I love short form writing so much. Short forms lower the threshold for what counts.

A moment no longer has to sustain an entire novel. It only needs enough emotional weight for a paragraph. Or a page. Or a short column written on your phone while sitting on a park bench.

That shift matters enormously. Because once the required scale becomes smaller, your life suddenly becomes full of material again.

People underestimate how creatively life-changing it is to finish things regularly. Short pieces allow you to complete the cycle: noticing, writing, shaping, publishing, beginning again.

Long projects often trap people permanently inside preparation.

Short forms let you actually live as a writer.

perhaps the real task

I no longer think the primary task of a writer is becoming more interesting and making more time to write about this interesting life.

I think the task is learning how to pay attention.

Not only to your own thoughts, but also to the people around you and the subtle details most individuals overlook. Everyday moments, especially the quiet and easily dismissed ones, tend to hold more material than we give them credit for.

Because stories are constantly passing through our lives unnoticed. Writing is often simply the act of catching one before it disappears.

a small experiment for today

Today, try noticing one thing slightly longer than usual.

Not the biggest thing.

Not the most impressive thing.

Just something that lingers.

A strange sentence. A moment of awkwardness. The way someone says your name. A thought that returns three times for no obvious reason.

Stay with it.

Write a few lines about it before your brain convinces you it is too small to matter.

Because that is the irony of writing:

The people waiting for grand ideas often never begin.

Meanwhile the writers are out here building entire essays from uncomfortable gallery visits and tomato soup.

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The women are wearing various iterations of frugal chic, the men linen shirts. Everyone is smoking.

The whole scene feels like it has slipped out of an episode of Sex and the City, and on a spontaneous impulse, I decide that a late-night visit to a gallery is an excellent idea.

Inside, the noise level is pleasantly subdued. Some guests are engaged in hushed conversations about distinctly wealthy-people topics, while others study the photographs on the walls with serious expressions.

Crémant is being served, which I assume is quite expensive — not because I know this for certain, but because it fits the atmosphere perfectly.

The exhibition consists of photographs of various low-rise buildings in Hamburg. To me, every building looks the same, and by the third image, I begin to lose interest in the subject. I immediately feel like a cultural philistine, someone who simply doesn’t get it.

So — and because it doesn’t feel chic to rush through a gallery — I start counting to sixty in my head in front of each photograph before allowing myself to move on to the next.

Standing in front of what feels like the seventh identical building, I begin to wonder whether the other guests truly see more than I do, or whether we are all collectively pretending.

Whether someone else here might also be counting to sixty in their head. Whether there is an unspoken agreement that, by photograph number seventeen, you briefly furrow your brow and then move on slowly.

I’m standing in front of my final building, already preparing for a discreet exit, when one of the linen-clad men appears beside me.

“And? What do you think?”

Panic runs through my mental archive of vaguely intellectual art phrases, and I quickly realize that my repertoire is limited.

“I think…” I begin slowly, “the repetition is very consistent.”

He nods immediately, almost relieved.

“Yes. Exactly.”

We stand there in silence for a moment.

Then I smile politely, say goodbye, and leave the gallery.

On my way out, I decide that perhaps I do understand art better than I thought.

Or at least just as much as everyone else.

Original below (german)

Ich bin gerade auf dem Rückweg von einem Dinner mit Freunden, als ich auf der anderen Straßenseite das belebte Treiben vor einer kleinen Galerie bemerke. In kleinen Gruppen stehen gut gelaunte, gut aussehende Menschen mit Gläsern sprudelnden Inhalts beisammen und unterhalten sich.

Die Frauen tragen diverse Iterationen von Frugal Chic, die Männer lässig aufgeknöpfte Leinenhemden. Alle rauchen.

Das Ganze wirkt ein wenig wie einer Szene aus Sex and the City entsprungen, und ich entscheide mich, einem spontanen Impuls folgend, dass ein spätabendlicher Besuch in einer Galerie eine gute Idee sei.

Der Geräuschpegel in der Galerie selbst ist angenehm – einige Gäste unterhalten sich mit gedämpften Stimmen über Reiche-Leute-Themen, andere wiederum betrachten mit ernsten Mienen die Fotografien an den Wänden. Es wird Crémant ausgeschenkt, der sehr teuer sein wird, was ich nicht mit absoluter Gewissheit weiß, aber sofort vermute, weil es gut in die Szenerie passt.

Bei den Ausstellungsstücken selbst handelt es sich um Fotografien diverser Hamburger Flachbauten. Für mich sieht jedes der Gebäude gleich aus, und nach dem dritten Bild verliere ich langsam das Interesse am Thema. Ich fühle mich sofort wie ein Kulturbanause; jemand, der es einfach nicht verstanden hat. Deswegen – und weil es nicht chic ist, durch eine Galerie zu hetzen – zähle ich vor jedem einzelnen Bild innerlich bis 60, bis ich es mir erlaube, zum nächsten zu gehen.

Während ich vor dem siebten identisch wirkenden Flachbau stehe, beginne ich mich zu fragen, ob die anderen Gäste wirklich mehr sehen als ich oder ob wir alle kollektiv so tun, als würden wir es tun.

Ob jemand hier vielleicht auch innerlich bis 60 zählt. Ob es eine unausgesprochene Übereinkunft gibt, dass man bei Bild Nummer siebzehn kurz die Stirn runzelt und dann langsam weitergeht.

Ich stehe vor meinem letzten Flachbau und bereite mich bereits auf einen unauffälligen Abgang vor, als einer der in Leinen gekleideten Männer neben mir auftaucht.

„Und, was denken Sie?“

Panisch durchdenke ich alle verfügbaren kulturintellektuellen Phrasen, merke aber schnell, dass mein Repertoire begrenzt ist.

„Ich finde …“, beginne ich langsam, „die Wiederholung sehr konsequent.“

Er nickt sofort, fast erleichtert.

„Ja, genau das.“

Wir stehen einen Moment schweigend nebeneinander.

Dann lächle ich ihm zur Verabschiedung zu und verlasse die Galerie.

Ich beschließe, dass ich vielleicht doch mehr Ahnung von Kunst habe, als ich dachte. Oder zumindest genauso viel wie alle anderen.

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Somewhere along the way, we collectively decided that writing only counts when it happens inside a 400-page novel written in a remote cabin while consuming alarming amounts of black coffee.

Which is unfortunate. Because most writing lives elsewhere.

It lives in notes apps. In tiny observations. In half-finished paragraphs written on trains. In strange thoughts that arrive while buying toothpaste.

After publishing that essay, one question kept appearing in the comments and messages:

“But what do I actually write about?”

Which is the kind of question I deeply understand.

Not because I believe our lives are empty of material. Quite the opposite. I think most people are drowning in material and simply failing to recognize it as such.

We tend to imagine writing ideas as lightning strikes. Dramatic revelations. Life-altering experiences.

Meanwhile, some of my most-read columns have emerged from café visits and cleaning my windows.

The problem is rarely a lack of ideas. The problem is attention.

So this article is not a list of “creative writing prompts” in the traditional sense. Nobody here will be instructed to “imagine a dragon who feels misunderstood.” Though I support him emotionally.

Instead, these prompts are meant to train your ability to notice.

Because once you begin paying attention properly, writing material starts reproducing at a deeply concerning rate.

how to use these prompts

I would strongly recommend not trying to answer these perfectly. In fact, perfection is probably the fastest way to kill them.

Most of these prompts work best when approached casually and honestly. Some may turn into essays. Others into half a page of observations. Some might only produce three useful sentences.

That still counts. The goal here is not literary greatness. The goal is movement. And preferably movement that does not emotionally resemble a university assignment.

observation prompts

Writers tend to become fascinated by strangers. Not in a criminal way. Usually.

1. Describe someone only through the way they speak to service workers.

2. Write about a person you immediately disliked for irrational reasons.

3. Describe somebody’s personality entirely through their apartment.

4. Write about someone who desperately wants to seem impressive.

5. Describe a person only through the contents of their shopping basket.

6. Write about the kindest stranger you still remember.

7. Describe someone you envy slightly.

8. Write about a person who always arrives too early. (This one felt personally targeted while writing it.)

9. Describe someone entirely through their texting style.

10. Write about somebody whose laugh changed your opinion of them.

prompts about ordinary moments

Most of my writing begins here. Not with events. With moments.

11. Write about waiting in line somewhere.

12. Describe the emotional atmosphere of a supermarket five minutes before closing.

13. Write about the last time you felt deeply embarrassed in public.

14. Describe a bus ride as though it were psychologically life-changing. (Which, depending on the bus ride, may not even be exaggerated.)

15. Write about a completely ordinary interaction that stayed with you for strange reasons.

16. Describe a café as though it were a film set.

17. Write about the last object you became emotionally attached to.

18. Describe your hallway at night.

19. Write about overhearing something you were probably not supposed to hear.

20. Describe the mood of your city on a Sunday evening.

prompts that turn overthinking into material

As someone who has mentally prepared for prison over entering the wrong tomato code at self-checkout, I feel qualified to discuss this category.

21. Write about a situation you catastrophized unnecessarily.

22. Describe your most irrational fear.

23. Write about a completely harmless interaction your brain turned into psychological warfare.

24. Describe the mental spiral triggered by a delayed text reply.

25. Write about a social interaction you replayed for three business days.

26. Describe a scenario where you assumed everybody hated you.

27. Write about a moment where your imagination completely outran reality.

28. Describe a tiny mistake as though it were a national scandal.

So far, we’ve covered prompts about people, awkwardness, and psychological spirals.

Behind the paywall: memory, atmosphere, emotional damage caused by grocery stores, and several prompts that probably should not have made me laugh as much as they did while writing them.

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And because I did not have the time to write a novel — or rather because I had convinced myself I didn’t — I did something tragic.

I stopped writing altogether.

The problem is that when a writer stops writing, something quietly begins to fade. It is not dramatic enough to announce itself. No orchestra swells. No visible catastrophe unfolds. But little by little, something essential goes dim.

And if you ask me, that is a tragedy.

When the pull toward the page grew louder again last year, I started looking for alternatives. Because the time for producing a novel was still, surprise, nowhere to be found.

That was when I stumbled into short form writing.

And I mean stumbled in the truest sense. Not through some grand artistic revelation. More through desperation mixed with curiosity.

This essay is an invitation to consider that writing does not have to mean novels. That perhaps many of us have made the category “writer” far too narrow for ourselves.

And that maybe a one-page piece written on a park bench can count just as much.

the quiet power of short form writing

What I love most about short form is that it doesn’t ask you to rearrange your existence in order to practice it.

A novel often arrives with the emotional energy of a Victorian inheritance dispute. It demands commitment. Sacrifice. Time blocks color-coded in your calendar.

A short piece asks for much less.

Most of my columns fit on a single A6 notebook page. Which still amazes me, considering the amount of psychological drama I manage to squeeze into them.

That brevity has changed everything.

Short writing can happen while waiting for your coffee. During a lunch break. On the train ride home.

If you ask me, there is something incredibly motivating about finishing things.

Holding a complete piece in your hands — however small — creates a momentum that sprawling projects often fail to generate.

finding your voice in small spaces

There’s another reason I keep evangelizing short forms to anyone who will listen politely.

They are excellent places to find your voice.

A novel can make people feel they need to arrive with a voice already formed, polished, literary, perhaps wearing spectacles.

A short piece lets you experiment your way toward one.

One week you might write something reflective and melancholic. The next, a petty manifesto against stand up comedy.

Because the stakes feel lower, you take more risks. And style often reveals itself through repeated risks.

I’ve learned more about my own writing voice through short columns than through any long-form project I’ve attempted.

Mostly because short pieces let you practice the actual craft in miniature. They teach compression without shallowness, they sharpen your sense of rhythm, and they force you to care about beginnings and endings in a way longer projects sometimes let you avoid.

In a small space, every sentence suddenly has to earn its keep.

People often think short form writing is easier because it is shorter. I think the opposite is often true. Writing briefly without becoming shallow is a discipline. And it teaches precision.

fun short form writing to experiment with

One of the liberating things about short form writing is that it rarely arrives in only one shape.

Many people hear “short form” and immediately picture polished personal essays, perhaps a poem involving moonlight and inherited grief. But the category is much wider, and thankfully much stranger.

Some forms barely look like writing practice at all. Which is often why they work so well.

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personal essays

If I had to recommend one doorway into short form, it would probably be the personal essay.

No dramatic life event is required. A thought worth following is usually enough.

Perhaps you write about first love. Maybe you compose an oddly emotional rant about running, a sport I continue to view with suspicion. Or you take the existential route and investigate why spotting your first grey hair under supermarket lighting felt like a spiritual event.

Almost anything can hold an essay if you keep pulling gently at the thread.

I like thinking of essays as single thoughts taken seriously.

That alone feels wonderfully radical.

Because essays can contain reflection, humor, memory and argument all at once, they are generous places to experiment.

observation notes

I have a particular fondness for observational writing.

Perhaps because it lets you turn nosiness into craft.

Tiny moments can carry astonishing weight when you pay close enough attention. A stranger reading a love poem on the train may be enough. So might a sentence overheard in a bakery that sounds suspiciously scripted.

Sometimes it is just an absurd scene in public that refuses to leave your head.

Those moments are often already half a story. Writing them down trains a muscle far more important than people realize:

Attention.

Most writing begins there anyway.

personal profiles

Not every piece has to revolve around events.

People make excellent material.

Try capturing someone close to you in five sentences. Then reduce the portrait to three. Then attempt the impossible and do it in one.

A coworker might reveal themselves in the way they laugh too loudly in quiet rooms. Another person may be entirely describable through how apologetically they order coffee.

Character often hides in details that seem too small to matter.

That is precisely why they matter.

Although the exercise appears almost childishly simple, it becomes surprisingly difficult the moment you attempt precision.

book reviews

I will defend book reviews as creative writing until further notice.

A good review is rarely consumer feedback.

More often it becomes a miniature essay wearing practical clothes.

Write about the novel that unsettled you.

Describe why one sentence kept following you around for days.

Complain at operatic length about a book you hated.

All of this counts.

Goodreads is full of people accidentally producing literature in the review section. I recommend joining them.

one line a day

One of the smallest practices I know has become one of my favorites.

Each evening I reduce the day to two or three words in my planner.

Sometimes the result feels profound.

Occasionally it is simply “Bought tulips.”

Or “Train delayed again.”

Or “Soup excellent.”

Reducing a day to one line sounds modest, but the exercise forces a decision about what mattered.

Over time it also leaves behind a curious little archive of a life. I find that beautiful.

google reviews (yes, really)

This may be my least respectable serious advice.

Write literary Google reviews.

Speaking of soup! Treat the tomato soup at your favorite restaurant as though it altered your worldview. Describe a pistachio croissant as if it belongs in Russian literature.

Overstate everything.

Take the form absurdly seriously.

Somewhere in the joke, voice begins to emerge.

Also, restaurants deserve better prose.

short stories

Anyone intimidated by novels might find short stories a much kinder place to begin.

A story does not need five hundred pages to contain consequence. One scene can be enough. A single turning point may carry an entire piece.

Sometimes all you need is one character making one irreversible decision. That already has the bones of fiction. Because short stories demand economy, they teach structure almost by stealth.

Many novelists started there for good reason. It is apprenticeship disguised as something manageable.

the personal column

And then, naturally, there is my favorite.

The personal column. The column about your own life. My beloved genre.

A personal column is a short, narrative-style piece of writing that focuses on one specific topic. It takes personal experiences, thoughts, or observations and turns them into a story.

The structure of a personal column closely resembles flash fiction:

• Typically under 1,000 words

• Option A: Plot-driven — the plot happens to the character, forcing them to act; despite its brevity, it needs a narrative arc with character, conflict, and some form of resolution (or implication)

• Option B: Character-driven — focuses on internal motivations, choices, and emotional growth

• Strong impact: aims to leave a lingering impression, like an afterimage

• Implication: often hints at a larger story the reader completes themselves

A column can begin with a stranger on a park bench and end, somehow, in a meditation on mortality. Another piece may revolve entirely around you overthinking during a bus ride.

Both count.

If you’re interested in this form of writing, here you can find my practical guide for personal column writing.

What fascinates me is how much emotional weight a very small piece can hold.

Some columns lean into plot.

Others turn almost entirely on a shift in perception.

Either way, I want a piece to leave some residue.

A good short piece lingers. Sometimes it stays with you like an afterimage; other times it reappears two days later while shampooing your hair for no obvious reason.

That kind of effect has very little to do with length.

And perhaps that is what I love most about the form.

start writing short form today

If there is anything I hope you take from this essay, it is not that everyone should start a newsletter or write personal columns in cafés while romantic piano music plays in the background.

Though I support that.

It is simply this: Do not let the scale of your imagined writing project keep you from writing.

The novel is not the only legitimate dream.

A short piece can carry weight as much as a novel.

So my plea is simple: write in forms your life can actually hold. Write briefly when that is what fits. Write often enough that the thread doesn’t break. Let small forms carry the writing life until, perhaps, they become the writing life.

Because when a writer does not write, something fades.

And I would hate for that to happen to you.

And possibly a morning routine involving lemon water at sunrise.

There seemed to be a very specific aesthetic attached to it — a woman drinking espresso alone at a little round café table, annotating a secondhand copy of Joan Didion while wearing ballet flats and carrying emotional damage in an elegant way.

In short: rebrand yourself.

And I have to admit — as someone who once briefly considered whether moving to an English countryside cottage with runner ducks was a realistic prerequisite for becoming a writer — I was vulnerable to this messaging.

But I think the whole “main character energy” thing has been misunderstood. Because stepping into main character energy does not mean becoming more interesting.

It means becoming more attentive. And those are wildly different things.

you do not need a new identity

A lot of self-improvement advice is built around replacement.

Replace your habits. Replace your personality. Replace your life. Become a better version.

But what if nothing about you needs replacing? What if the shift is smaller and stranger than that?

What if main character energy is simply the moment you stop moving through your life as if you’re an extra in somebody else’s film and the moment you start paying attention.

I had this realization because of writing.

Ever since I began writing a weekly column, ordinary life has become almost suspiciously alive.

A woman on a park bench doesn’t remain a woman on a park bench. She becomes a possible story.

A weird object left on the exchange shelf in my hallway doesn’t remain clutter. It becomes narrative evidence.

An awkward moment in a supermarket queue becomes material.

Nothing changed about my life.

Only the way I looked at it. That’s, at least for me, the whole trick.

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stop waiting to become “that kind of person”

I used to believe certain identities required external conditions.

An Interesting person, a main character – I thought those were things you earned after moving cities, changing careers, getting invited to more rooftop dinners.

But much like I eventually realized I did not need to write a novel to call myself a writer—I realized I do not need a cinematic life to inhabit it fully. You can step into main character energy while commuting. While buying toothpaste. While overanalyzing a strange interaction with a barista (especially while doing that).

That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy spending a nice day in a café with my book. But I’ve stopped placing more value on those moments than on the everyday.

The thing is that you need to stop treating everyday life as the boring part before your real life begins. This is your real life.

romanticize through attention, not aesthetics

I have a tiny objection to the whole “romanticize your life” discourse.

Sometimes it feels suspiciously adjacent to shopping.

As if meaning can be acquired through candles. I like candles. But they are not consciousness.

Romanticizing life, to me, is not turning your breakfast into content. Or at least, not just that. It’s noticing that your elderly neighbor always waters her plants in pearls. It’s inventing backstories for objects people leave on the communal windowsill. It’s realizing the cashier you see every Thursday has started recognizing you.

That’s where main character energy actually lives. Not in linen trousers.

It’s not that I don’t love linen pants. Or that I think it’s wrong to take a good look at your wardrobe every now and then. The wonderful Olivia wrote a great post on this and has generally created a lovely series called “How to Become the Main Character in Your Own Story.”

I just think that if main character energy depended on linen alone, half of coastal Europe would be living in a coming-of-age film.

act like your life has narrative weight

This may be my favorite practical shift.

Move through the day as if moments matter. Because well…. they do.

Start asking yourself:

• What today would make it into a scene?

• What did I notice that most people ignored?

• What small absurdity would be worth retelling at dinner?

This changes everything.

Because suddenly you stop chasing extraordinary experiences and begin extracting meaning from ordinary ones.

Which, incidentally, is also what writers do.

stop waiting for your real life to begin

I think one of the saddest ideas many of us carry is the belief that our real life starts later.

After the move. After the relationship. After the better version of us arrives.

As though the present were merely a waiting room.

I believed that for years. I thought the life worth writing about would begin once my circumstances looked more literary.

Then I started writing about my actual life and realized the material had been here all along.

This awkward, unfinished, deeply ordinary life was already full of scenes, I had just treated them as insignificant.

Writers perhaps understand this instinctively. Writing trains you to grant significance. To let the mundane hold emotional weight. To suspect that even inconvenience may contain meaning. Possibly especially inconvenience.

a small exercise for entering your main character era

For one week, pretend your life is being observed by a novelist.

Notice recurring characters.

Notice symbols.

Notice strange coincidences.

Notice your own absurd thought patterns.

Write down one scene each day and I promise your life will begin looking richer almost immediately.

becoming the main character without becoming someone else

This is maybe what I most want to say:

You do not have to become a different woman. Or man. Or mysteriously Parisian intellectual. You do not need to “reinvent.” You may simply need to inhabit your own life more fully.

That is a much gentler invitation. But honestly, a more radical one.

Because anyone can buy linen trousers. Paying attention is harder.

Step into your main character energy. Not by performing a new identity. By taking your current life seriously enough to treat it as a story. Because it already is. You may as well act accordingly.

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“Oh, how lovely — this is my favorite bench. Every time I sit here, I text my grandson to tell him I’m back on the tanning bed.” She laughs warmly, like someone who has spent a good portion of her life laughing. I like her instantly.

After some light small talk about — of course — the weather, she pulls out her phone and presses it into my hand. “Young lady, you surely know why I suddenly can’t hear anything on here, don’t you?”

I actually do know, because the phone is on silent, and I feel as though I’ve just single-handedly resolved an international crisis. “Oh, that’s wonderful — otherwise I would’ve had to wait a whole week until I see my grandson again. He usually fixes these things for me.”

Instead of her grandson, I am now the one resolving her ongoing telecommunications issues. These mainly involve blocking her neighbor (who apparently sends her AI-generated images of animals in baby clothes every morning) and reassuring her that she has not, in fact, deleted the internet and therefore does not need to fear criminal prosecution.

After twenty minutes, her phone is fully operational again. She thanks me profusely, looks me up and down, and nods with quiet satisfaction.

“You know what,” she says, “I’ll show you a picture of my grandson.”

Original below (german)

Ich sitze auf der beliebtesten Sonnenbank Hamburgs, was ich vor allem daran merke, dass der Platz neben mir exakt in dem Moment neu besetzt wird, in dem er frei wird. Wo eben noch ein angenehm schweigsamer Mann neben mir die Sonne genoss, nimmt nun angestrengt pustend eine ältere Dame Platz. Ich weiß sofort, dass sie mich in ein Gespräch verwickeln wird, und nehme vorsorglich die AirPods aus den Ohren.

„Ach schön, das ist meine Lieblingsbank. Immer wenn ich hier bin, schreibe ich meinem Enkel, dass ich gerade wieder auf der Sonnenbank bin.“ Sie lacht herzlich und klingt dabei wie jemand, der in seinem Leben schon viel gelacht hat. Ich mag sie sofort.

Nach etwas oberflächlichem Smalltalk über – natürlich – das Wetter zückt sie ihr Handy und drückt es mir in die Hand. „Junge Dame, Sie wissen doch sicherlich, wieso ich plötzlich nichts mehr hier hören kann, oder?“ Das weiß ich tatsächlich, da es auf stumm gestellt ist, und ich fühle mich, als hätte ich eigenhändig einen internationalen Krisenfall abgewendet. „Das ist ja hervorragend, ich hätte sonst eine Woche warten müssen, bis ich meinen Enkel wiedersehe. Der löst das sonst immer für mich.“

Anstelle ihres Enkels bin nun ich es, die etwaige weitere Telekommunikationsprobleme für sie behebt. Im Kern drehen diese sich darum, ihre Nachbarin zu blockieren (die schickt ihr wohl morgendlich KI-generierte Bilder von Tieren in Babyklamotten) und ihr zu erklären, dass sie das Internet nicht gelöscht hat und daher keine strafrechtliche Verfolgung befürchten muss.

Nach zwanzig Minuten ist ihr Handy auf Vordermann gebracht. Sie bedankt sich überschwänglich, mustert mich von oben bis unten und nickt zufrieden.

„Wissen Sie was“, sagt sie dann, „ich zeige Ihnen mal ein Bild von meinem Enkel.“

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Strange in the sense that I could barely finish any of his books because I simply found them too terrifying. The only one I managed to get through as a teenager was “The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon” — and even that was more out of obligation, because I had to give a presentation about it in school two days later.

Even though I rarely finished his books — or maybe exactly because of that — I was fascinated by his writing style. I never felt like I was reading a story. I felt like I was inside it. He made me distrust the protagonist and feel compassion for the “wrong” characters.

While (half-)reading his books, I kept coming back to one question:

What has to happen to a person to write like this?

When I finally read his memoir On Writing last year, I suddenly had my answer. But more on that later.

As it usually goes, I also started wondering what life experiences and influences had shaped my writing. And more importantly: how would I even figure that out?

So today, I’m sharing what I found along the way.

what is a personal writing style, really?

Your writing style is a combination of different components that give your texts a recognizable identity.

The goal here is that someone could steal an unpublished text of yours, publish it on their blog as their own—and your loyal readers would still immediately sense that something is off.

Admittedly, that’s a slightly egocentric goal and maybe a bit dramatic. But it illustrates how important it is to bring your own voice into your writing.

The more I think about it, the more I like comparing writing style to a recipe.

If you eat a dish from your childhood and one small ingredient is missing — let’s say a spoonful of sugar in the tomato sauce — you might not be able to name it right away. But something will feel off. Something essential is missing.

Your writing works the same way.

William Zinsser put it perfectly in On Writing Well:

“Don’t alter your voice to fit your subject. Develop one voice that readers will recognize when they hear it on the page (…)”.

Before we can understand what shapes our writing, it helps to look at how we actually write.

Let’s take Stephen King as an example:

• Simple language over complex terminology: King admires The Elements of Style by Strunk and White (which, in my opinion too, is required reading for writers). His style is often described as clear, precise, vivid, and concise. He favors direct language.

• Focus on characters and emotion: He emphasizes that horror should come from the psychological situation of the characters — not just from violence. His stories are rooted in the fears and thoughts of ordinary people.

• Realistic language and setting: He writes in a simple, everyday tone about “normal” people in familiar environments, which I feel makes the horror seem much closer.

I then looked at what defines my own writing:

• Analytical overthinking: I tend to overanalyze even the smallest interactions with strangers. I’m less interested in what was said and more in what it could have meant — the subtext, the “what if” scenarios that spiral in my head.

• Humor through exaggeration: I love exaggeration — not subtly, but deliberately over the top. Hyperbole is my way of creating a very specific kind of sarcasm that sits somewhere between sincerity and absurdity.

• Everyday life as a stage: Nothing particularly dramatic happens in my texts. I write about ordinary situations that might seem trivial at first — but through internal overthinking, they turn into small parallel worlds. What defines my column is not what happens, but how I think about it.

• Personal vulnerability: Because I focus on small moments, my texts inevitably reveal a lot about me. Each column becomes a small window into how I think, what I find funny, and how I see the world.

how to find your own style

Maybe you’ve already started analyzing your own writing while reading this.

I once shared a small exercise in my writing guide, and as it fits perfectly, I will copy it here (saves you a click too lol):

Step 1: Collect your inner reflexes

Take a sheet of paper or open a blank document and answer the following questions honestly and without overthinking:

• Which emotion accompanies me most often in everyday life?

• What do I mentally do too much? (e.g. apologizing, fantasizing, analyzing, dramatizing, relativizing)

Write in bullet points. No polished text. No expectations. Just raw material.

Step 2: Exaggerate yourself

Think of your last grocery run or your last walk.

Write two versions of the same scene:

• Version A: as neutral as possible, almost like a report

• Version B: exaggeratedly honest, with all your thoughts, overreactions, fantasies, inner monologues (see the bus example above)

Then compare the two texts and mark in version B:

• Places where you laugh

• Sentences that feel very “you”

• Thoughts you would normally never say out loud

That’s where your personal touch lives.

Step 3: Recognize your patterns

Read several of your texts (or drafts) and look for repetition:

• Do you often think in worst-case scenarios?

• Do you mentally jump into the future?

• Do you observe yourself from the outside?

• Do you work with exaggeration, understatement, or dry humor?

These patterns are not mistakes—they are your style.

Allow yourself to stay the same. Many writers believe they need to reinvent themselves with every text. The opposite is true. Recognition comes from repetition.

Readers return precisely because of this.

Don’t be too hard on yourself if your style doesn’t reveal itself immediately. When I first started, I wrote very emotional texts. Then I realized how much it annoyed me to pull at the heartstrings in every piece—and that I’d rather make others (and myself) smile.

Your writing style will develop over time.

It’s not something you add.

It’s something you stop hiding.

what shapes your writing style?

While researching this essay, I kept coming across the same factors again and again — and interestingly, my community mentioned the exact same ones.

life experiences

The most obvious — and most powerful — influence is your own life.

Your experiences shape how you see the world, what topics you’re drawn to, and what emotions show up in your writing.

Stephen King’s early financial struggles and his battles with addiction heavily influenced the darker undertones of his work.

And this is what I find so fascinating:
Even if two people write about the same event, their texts will never sound the same — because their past isn’t the same.

This is often described as own voice: stories feel more authentic when they come from lived experience.

what you read and consume

Every writer is, consciously or not, a product of what they read and consume.

Books, essays, series — they leave traces in your sentence structure, rhythm, and word choice. Some influences are obvious, others sneak in quietly.

Over time, all of this blends into something that slowly becomes your own voice.

language and cultural environment

The language you grow up with and the culture around you shape how you express yourself — your humor, your metaphors, your way of telling stories.

One of my favorite books, The Rachel Incident by Caroline O’Donoghue, puts it beautifully:

“Homer” and immediately knowing when someone doesn’t mean “Simpson.” Knowing which part of the animal a pâté comes from. It all adds up. It all means something.

geography and environment

Where you grow up matters.

Small towns, big cities, different regions — they all carry their own atmosphere and influence what stories you tell and how you tell them.

personality and mindset

More than anything, your personality shapes your writing.

Whether you think analytically, emotionally, humorously, or with distance — it shows up on the page.

Maybe that’s also why publishing a text can feel so uncomfortable. Every column reveals a part of you.

And yet — that’s exactly what makes writing so compelling.

emotional patterns and inner themes

Recurring inner themes — fears, doubts, desires — often run through your writing, even if they’re never explicitly named. They create depth.

5 things that shaped my writing style

Working on this essay wasn’t entirely selfless — quite the opposite. Of course, I also wanted to understand what shaped my own writing style.

So now it gets pretty personal — which is why this section is reserved for a smaller circle of my community, my paid subscribers.

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I haven’t really put the pen down since — metaphorically speaking, of course.

We all know that the research around the benefits of creative writing isn’t exactly lacking. And still, it took doing it myself to understand just how much consistent writing would impact my life. And the funny part is: I don’t even write that much — usually around 1.5 hours per week.

And yet, even though I don’t write every day, this practice has become non-negotiable in my life. Not just because I enjoy it. But because I’ve seen what it actually does to my quality of life.

So today, I want to share a few things I’ve noticed.

F*ck the runner’s high—it’s time for the writer’s high!

I’m not a particularly ambitious — let alone skilled — runner. My last attempt ended after less than two kilometers due to complete exhaustion.

But there was a time when I loved running. I would drag myself off the couch several times a week, lace up my shoes, and just go. And even though that phase is long gone, I still remember those runs where the so-called runner’s high would kick in.

Everything suddenly felt light. Effortless. I felt — as the name suggests — slightly intoxicated. Unstoppable. (Well… not entirely. I did once get hit by a bike.)

Why am I telling you this?

Because after I stopped running, I didn’t experience that feeling for years.

Until I started writing again.

And suddenly — there it was. A writer’s high.

The two states aren’t that different. Except that writing doesn’t require me to crawl up the stairs afterward, gasping for air.

It’s that moment when you land on the idea.
When everything clicks.
When the structure becomes clear and the words just… come.

It’s an incredible feeling. And one I don’t want to miss again.

Carrie Bradshaw who?

Shortly after I started writing my personal column, my TikTok audience suggested I watch Sex and the City for the first time.

“Carrie Bradshaw in real life,” they wrote.

I was intrigued.

Now — I’m only on season three, and Carrie has made… questionable decisions. But I do understand the comparison. Mostly because of the column.

Like her, I write about life in a city and all its little complexities. My life is significantly less glamorous, but there are parallels. Especially in one aspect: we’re both chronic overthinkers.

And honestly, that helps. It’s hard to write consistently if you don’t have a constant stream of thoughts to work with.

But I think what people really mean is something else. There’s a certain main character energy that comes with writing about your own life.

And I’ll admit it: being able to say that you write a column about your life is… a slight ego boost.

Not in a “this is my entire personality now” kind of way. But in a way that feels very aligned. Like a part of me that just makes sense — and that I enjoy talking about when it comes up.

So yes. Sometimes my life does feel like it could be an episode.

And I kind of love that.

your life becomes material

Whenever something awkward, funny, or just slightly absurd happens, my first thought is: I’m going to write about this.

That alone changes everything.

It gives everyday experiences a different kind of weight. Which leads to the next shift:

I notice more.

Things that used to feel completely ordinary — like going to the supermarket — suddenly carry the potential for a story.

That doesn’t mean I’m waiting for a mugging or a spontaneous flash mob around every corner—no, rather, I simply pay closer attention to everyday life.

Most of my columns are about situations that seem insignificant from the outside. What makes them interesting is not what happens — but what I think about what happens.

And in order to put that into words, I need to stay receptive to those small moments.

Writing consistently has made me more present. Everything suddenly feels a little more alive.

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getting to know yourself in sentences

If you write, you will learn things about yourself. There’s no way around it.

Sitting down to write a column or a personal essay means sitting down with your thoughts — properly. Not the quick, passing kind. The kind that stays long enough to turn into sentences.

And sometimes, that leads to unexpected realizations.

Thoughts that would normally disappear within seconds suddenly take shape. They stay. You follow them. You question them.

Over time, I’ve gotten to know myself in a way I didn’t before.

With every text, it feels like I’m getting a little closer to something — something more precise, more honest. More me.

how to become distinguished in 8 months

Writing is a craft. And I’m convinced that large parts of it can be learned.

If you write consistently, you improve — almost without noticing at first. You begin to understand rhythm. Where a short sentence hits harder than a long one. Where something needs space. Where it doesn’t.

I’m still at the beginning of that process. But even now, it’s fascinating to look back at texts I wrote last summer.

Some of them? I’d rather burn.

But that’s kind of the point.

Seeing how much your writing can evolve in a relatively short time is incredibly motivating.

And it doesn’t stop at writing. I’ve noticed changes in how I speak. How I phrase things. How I structure thoughts in conversations. Even my vocabulary has expanded.

These are slow effects. Subtle ones. But they’re worth sticking around for.

why it’s worth staying consistent

Writing weekly has only felt easy because it turned into something I genuinely care about.

When I don’t write, it feels like I’m neglecting a part of myself.

And it’s not the big, dramatic changes that matter most.

It’s the small ones.

The way you start noticing more.
Thinking more clearly.
Expressing yourself more precisely.

That’s what consistent writing does. Quietly. Over time.

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