When I first started this site, I had a simple rule: I am the audience of my writings. Not because I didn’t want readers, but because I didn’t want readers’ feedback to change the way I thought. The idea of an “audience of one” wasn’t about isolation—it was about honesty.
Sadly, after more than 21 years that mindset is harder to hold onto now.
The internet today runs on feedback loops. Likes, shares, comments, algorithms—all of it nudges you, subtly or not, toward what performs. You learn quickly which opinions get traction, which tones resonate, which topics bring people in. As I wrote in 2007, the internet demands loud debate and flash, not quiet discussion. And once you know those things, it becomes very easy to start writing for them instead of for yourself.
I’ve felt that pull. In fact, anyone who writes online for long enough does.
But every time I’ve leaned too far in that direction, my writing has gotten worse and less satisfying to me. Let me be clear, the writing is probably not technically worse—it might even be a little tighter or more structured after 20 years—but it became less real to me. Less curious. More like a forced product than a process. And when that happens that’s usually my signal to step back and pause.
Writing for an audience of one—myself—forces a different set of priorities. It means I can follow a thought even if it leads nowhere. It means I can change my mind without worrying about consistency with some past “brand.” I can write something that only makes sense to me today, trusting that maybe it’ll make more sense later—or maybe it won’t, and that’s okay too.
It also creates a kind of time capsule. When I go back and read old posts, I’m not seeing what I thought people wanted to hear. I’m seeing what I actually thought at the time, unfiltered. I mean how did I feel about my 2009 trip to Albuquerque? Did I really like Marvel’s Jessica Jones? Yes I did and I said so. It’s a record of how my thinking has evolved, where I was wrong, where I was onto something, and how I’ve changed.
That doesn’t mean readers don’t matter. Look, I look at the WordPress tally of daily visitors every single day. I see which posts got the most engagement – the most visitors. If you’re here, I appreciate it more than I probably say. But you’re not the starting point. You’re the byproduct. You get to share in my joy.
And maybe that’s the paradox: writing for an audience of one is, ironically, what makes the writing worth reading for others. People can tell when something is chasing approval versus trying to figure something out. One feels fake; the other feels real.
I don’t always get the balance right. There are posts where I’ve second-guessed myself (including this one), softened a take, or even avoided a topic altogether (politics for example) because I knew how it might land or didn’t like how it would make me feel afterwards. But the goal hasn’t changed, even if the execution sometimes slips.
At the end of the day, this site still works best when it’s a place for me to think out loud, not perform. When it’s a space where I like what I write and everyone else is just invited along.
