In the novella “The Suitcase” by nonconformist soviet writer Sergei Dovlatov I came across a dialogue that contains one of the most important writing hacks I know. The dialogue is between the mother of Dovlatov’s friend and Dovlatov himself.

“You know, I've long wanted to write about Kolya. Something like memoirs”
“Write it”
“I'm afraid I don't have talent. Though all my friends liked my letters.”
“Then write it as a long letter.”
“The hardest thing is to start. Really, where did it all begin? Maybe from the day we met? Or much earlier?”
“So start it just like that.”
“How?”
"The hardest thing is to start. Really, where did it all begin…”

I learned to write from Sasha Chapin (website; substack) — back when he was still doing writing coaching. Since then he moved onto a more fashionable occupation — being a CEO of a perfume company.

Back when I had the privilege to work with Sasha I had roughly this same dialogue with him dozens of times. I’d complain to Sasha that I didn’t know how to write something, expressing my confusion in words. He’d reply: "write it the way you’ve just told me." My confusion often consisted of various doubts with emotional content behind them. Sasha’d assure me that those kinds of doubts, uncertainties and personal feelings were exactly what makes writing interesting. Reluctantly I’d take the advice of the coach — and somehow my writing would improve.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I would be very interested to check out memoirs beginning with "The hardest thing is to start. Really, where did it all begin... Maybe from the day we met? Or much earlier?" There's something captivating about the unpolished honesty of these words — the exact opposite of those overconfident journalistic hooks that try so hard to get you reading. If somehow Dovlatov’s book had a hyperlink to these memoirs, I would’ve definitely clicked on it.

At some point, I did enough repetitions of this hack to fully internalise it. The hack is now muscle memory, fully integrated in the process of writing. In any uncertain situation, I write in an unfiltered way:
— how I already feel about the matter;
— exactly the thought that popped into mind while the cursor was blinking;
— why I suddenly paused to think during writing;
— how I would say it to a friend;
— every doubt, emotion or personal opinion;
— and so on.

For example, the third and fourth sentences in my essay about the lost backpack are a result of this hack: “It is an embarrassing story. It is embarrassing and difficult to tell — but that's exactly why I'm telling it to you.” I was cringing while writing the sentences, but shameful stories often make the most interesting art, so I proceeded to tell the story. If it seems to you that I expressed the same thought more verbosely — you're exactly right. When I wrote those lines, I was simply capturing the uncomplicated personal picture of shame and cringe that had formed at that moment, without dressing it up. And now, by repeating myself here, I'm hoping you'll feel that you too could approach writing not as an intellectual operation but as capturing your personal emotional experience.

And sure, sometimes you have to think things through. Sometimes you need to explain genuinely complex ideas, or dig into research and convey the full context to your readers. And sometimes a piece needs long, methodical and thorough editing. But the process of writing — especially writing a first draft — should resemble quickly sketching what’s inside your mind, not squeezing words out of yourself.

Sasha Chapin has two essays on his Substack with related advice:
1. “If You Have Writer's Block, Maybe You Should Stop Lying.” Writer's block is usually a problem of sincerity, not technique.
2. “Write Faster.” “If you write quickly, and don’t worry much about writing well, the quality of your writing will improve.”

When I first saw the dialogue in Dovlatov, I realised that this dialogue has happened countless times before and continues to happen all the time. It’s part of the writing tradition, surely centuries old. A few times in my life I’ve found myself on the other side of this dialogue — on the side of the more experienced writer. And it’s incredibly satisfying: with just a few words, you help someone capture more of themselves on the page.

You too can become a conduit of this tradition. First practice this hack a few times, simulating both sides in your head. Then watch for the moment when someone says, “I don't know how to write this...” followed by a perfectly formed thought. Point it out to them. If they stop after “I don't know,” just ask “What exactly?” You'll most likely hear the thought emerge. Then simply add: “Write it just like that.”

The strongest writing isn’t born from striving to flawlessly record something the “right” way, but from readiness to expose your real attitude and feelings towards the subject with all their flaws and contradictions. Honesty with readers begins with honesty with yourself.

And I am now going to be honest with you and write it like it is — I wish this piece had a stronger and more interesting ending. Some elegant chord of words in the final paragraph that would beautifully conclude it in a logical way. But I can’t think of one. So I press “Publish” and send this your way.