I’ve never had an external writing goal.

Making people think, or act, accomplishing this or that — it hardly crosses my mind. If I don’t change people’s lives, I’m fine with that too.

I’m curious, so I try to figure stuff out. My fascination is the driver. I pick topics I’m excited to dig into. And I’ll spend however long it takes. Then I share what I discover. It’s an incredible gift for me that readers find these cognitive adventures of mine worth their time.

There are also things I want to give a voice to. Bits I feel are wrong. For example, when I look around, I can’t help but notice that many people are not working towards a meaningful life, and make some mistakes in prioritizing what matters. That needs saying. So I write about that.

And thirdly, I’m looking for answers to issues I experience. Searching for the solution, I start with myself as the first case study. I’m my own patient, playing both the psychoanalyst and the client lying on the sofa. I think, if I’m understanding myself, I’ll be getting some other people right as well.

I explore things, I feel things, I think things, I write things. I want to progress, I want to write better pieces. I wish to express myself better. Because this is what I do, I seek to perform the best I can. But there is no goal providing orientation, answering the ‘what for’.

So when folks ask me about my ‘mission’, ‘ultimate writing ambition’, or how I’m ‘adding value’ — as they were keen to do when the new year rolled around — I am weirdly ashamed and proud at the same time. I have no clue.

I just write whatever strikes me as interesting, as needing to be said, or bothers me.

That’s it.

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