"Writing is DEAD. Bring it back in 2025", "How to read better", "Being 'Well-Read Isn't What You Think", "The reasons you can't finish a book"—please, stop showing me these.
I'll admit, until recently, I clicked on every one. This kind of content has dominated my social media feeds for months, probably with the new year approaching—a fresh chance to become the perfect version of myself at the strike of midnight—let's get it right this time. The allure is obvious: it preys on the eternally dissatisfied but optimistic "pseudo-intellectual" online community, always chasing self-improvement. This content isn’t novel, nor particularly useful insight. It exacerbates the romanticisation of reading and writing, imbuing excessive meaning and significance to them - these sacred acts - as well as an elevated, often crippling emotional barrier to entry.
It's like being gifted a fancy perfume—you save it for a "special occasion" that never comes, and eventually, it spoils. We attach so much significance and meaning to it that we never fully enjoy it, caught in a loop of overthinking and hesitation. This elevated importance creates a fear of doing it "wrong," discouraging us from engaging at all unless it feels perfect, which often leads to paralysis or avoidance altogether. Reading and writing are just illusive enough to make us vulnerable to this same trap. We’re told they’re transformative, life-changing, hallowed. Pound through 111 books in a year like a productivity warrior (yes, that's a real video), or succumb to procrastination from the emotional weight and never even start.
The underlying issue, of course, is that it's focusing too much on the act of reading and writing, not what we’re consuming or creating. Podcasts, for instance, can be brain-rot entertainment or profoundly enlightening, yet no one goes around proclaiming, "Listening will change your life." Why? Because listening isn’t gatekept; it’s easy, accessible, and unburdened by inflated and manipulated, significance. Nobody clicks.
This obsession with secrets—special knowledge just out of reach—feels embarrassingly innate to us, like a dog's inability to not chase the squirrel. Early religions thrived on this allure: salvation was tied to learning hidden truths. The mere existence of a "secret" creates an irresistible pull. Even in mundane moments, this power grips us. Someone telling you, "That film has a great twist," is a way to both make it irresistible to watch as well as a torturous affair.
Once we do gain this secret knowledge, we often can’t resist the urge to become gatekeepers ourselves, even subconsciously. We hype up, admittedly real, but often subtle benefits, framing them as transformative. Why? Because having a secret—being the one with the illusive knowledge— makes us feel special, intelligent, and important. It’s human nature, and it's a goldmine in the world of social media. Algorithms feed on this, amplifying the endless cycle of "secrets revealed" content, leaving us overwhelmed by vapid but seductive promises, injecting this dark aspect into otherwise well-meaning content.
I confess that part of my motivation for writing this stems from a sense of hurt and disappointment. I feel ashamed at how seductive this type of content can be and frustrated by my inability to resist clicking on it, even when I fully understand its manipulative nature. It preys on the feeling that we’re never doing it right—that when others read or write, it looks magical, a fount of value, while our own attempts feel clumsy, incomplete, as if we’re missing some secret ingredient. This internal conflict leaves me feeling resentful—not really towards the creators of such content, but towards myself for falling for the ruse over and over.
So, what do we do? Both as consumers and creators, we need to break free from this cycle. Lately, the most fulfilling content I’ve encountered has been radically transparent. The creator lays out all their "secrets" upfront—like an abstract in an academic paper—and then dives into the real exploration. There is such a relief for me to know they aren't wasting my time via subtle pervasive psychological tricks, or being held on the hook for an underwhelming payoff. It allows me to more deeply engage in the content and build confidence in the presenter. They are actually trying to engage with us, not use us for 'engagement'.
