The Illusion of Prolificacy: How I Write So Much, So Often

If my subscriber level ever exceeds my count on both hands and feet, I suspect there will arise a widespread perception that I am an exceptionally prolific writer, someone who churns out essays and reflections at an almost unnatural pace. People see me publishing new pieces twice a day—sometimes even more—and they wonder how it’s humanly possible to produce so much reasonably well polished content so quickly.

To the outside observer, each essay might appear conjured up in real time, fully formed from thin air—almost like magic on the very first try. From that perspective, my output can look like a kind of parlor trick or superpower that defies the normal creative process. But the reality behind this seeming frenzy of writing is far simpler and far less glamorous: I have always written.

For as long as I can remember, I have been writing—not for an audience or social media engagement, not for the approval of strangers on the internet, but purely for myself. Long before I had any subscribers or a platform, I would jot down my thoughts whenever inspiration struck, often using the Notes app on my iPhone to capture ideas on the fly. It didn’t matter whether anyone else would ever read those words; the very act of putting my thoughts into sentences was its own reward. Over time, this private habit left me with an enormous backlog of material. In fact, the vast majority of what I publish now—probably 90 percent of it—was written weeks, months, or even years ago and then stored within my iCloud backup, longing for release.

That app became a repository for hundreds of entries, each capturing some passing thought or fleeting insight—all saved without any expectation that they would ever see the light of day. These pieces were never intended for public consumption. They were private musings—snippets of my inner dialogue captured on the page. Often I ended up debating myself in writing, exploring two sides of an idea or working through a question that fascinated me. Many entries were just intellectual exercises—practice essays, speeches, perhaps loose paragraphs looking for their mates; where I explored concepts to challenge my own understanding. And plenty were nothing more than half-formed thoughts—little seeds I quickly jotted down in hopes of researching and developing them further later on.

Now that I’ve moved my writing to Substack, my approach is straightforward: I’m dusting off those archived notes and giving them new life. With over 900 pieces in that private archive, I have no shortage of material. Each day I pull something from those notes, update it, and prepare it for public eyes. In most cases, this process takes only a quick 5 or 10-minute edit—maybe trimming a redundant line, clarifying a point, or adding a sentence to reflect a perspective I’ve gained since I first wrote it. These notes were already fairly complete thoughts, so usually only minor tweaks are needed before they’re polished enough to publish.

I do take one extra step with some pieces: I run them through Grammarly. This isn’t to outsource my writing at all. I do this because of Grammarly’s ability to catch and point out plagiarism and provide references to the original source material. It’s a quick safeguard that ensures each piece I share is at least 95% in my voice and my original work. Why 95%? Well, candidly, Grammarly will often highlight a short phrase or portion of a sentence that is inconsequential and reference it to somewhere else. In those instances, I make no revisions. I’m not here to share “perfect” works or frankly, everything would still be in the Notes app on my iPhone. So for me, “95% close to perfect” shared, is better than “100% perfect” left unshared.

But make no mistake—I still write every day. I treat writing as a daily exercise for the mind: just as an athlete trains to stay in shape, I write to keep my creative muscles strong. My backlog might ensure I always have something ready to publish, but I’m not coasting on old material. In fact, that backlog exists only because of this long-standing daily habit. Even as I publish those older pieces, I keep adding new ones to the pile. If a fresh idea or news story grabs my attention in the morning, I strike while the iron is hot and often have a finished piece posted by that same afternoon. I don’t wait for the perfect wave of inspiration to hit—if something is on my mind, I start writing about it immediately. To me, writing is a practice, not an event. The very act of writing is what brings forth new ideas, not waiting around for inspiration to arrive.

Recently, I’ve started using ChatGPT in my workflow, but only in two limited roles. First, I treat it as a research assistant—a quick way to fact-check information or clarify points that require precision. If I’m unsure about a date, a definition, or the source of a quote, I can ask ChatGPT and get a concise answer in less time than it took me to realize the need. It saves me from trawling through multiple websites for a fact and helps ensure I get the details right. However, I never let it write my content for me.

Every sentence, paragraph, and op-ed remain my own creation. I might lean on AI to confirm a detail, but when it comes to choosing the words, structuring sentences and building the argument, that’s entirely my doing. In my view, AI is a tool, not a crutch. I have no interest in outsourcing the entire creative process to a machine, because the whole point of writing is the act of creation itself and since writing is a skill with which I am both well acquainted and deeply enjoy, relinquishing it to a program would make my investment on Substack pointless. Second, and at least a little bit counter to what you literally just read, I let ChatGPT create the images that I pair with my writing because the AI delivers tremendously well where I am both less skilled and less interested, (graphic design).

Perfectionism is a trap I refuse to fall back into. Obsessing over every tiny detail of a piece can be creatively crippling. I’ve lived too many years under the guise of trying to be perfect and in the process handicapped my own creative advancement by at least 2 decades. I refuse to continue to do that. I know many of the essays I publish contain minor typos or the occasional misplaced comma, and yes, as noted above, Grammarly may spotlight up to 5% of an op-ed as having been printed elsewhere. That isn’t because I don’t care about quality or am careless—it’s because I deliberately prioritize momentum over endless tweaking. If I fussed over every comma and word until everything was flawless and wholly original, I’d never publish anything.

I’ve seen writers get stuck in that loop, polishing a single paragraph for days and losing the forest for the trees. That compulsion to endlessly refine can become a death spiral for creativity. It’s far better to get the work out into the world, even if it’s not perfect. I would rather release something slightly flawed and keep my forward momentum than hold a piece hostage to impossible standards. No piece of writing is ever truly perfect, and there’s always something that could be improved. At some point, you have to let go and move on to the next idea.

Finally, I still hope that in time my dedication will pay off financially. But I harbor no illusions about overnight success. In reality, growth is slow and attention is fickle. One week a piece may resonate and draw a burst of new readers; the next, something I’m proud of will barely get noticed. The truth is, algorithms are indifferent to how much effort I pour into each essay. And yet, I write. I continue on because writing isn’t just about immediate rewards—it’s part of who I am. I write because I always have and always will.