Why I Write

The story of my journey.

My typewriter

This has to be the most common question I get after we closed our restaurant in late 2023.

“What are you doing now that Lot 8 is closed?”

“I am…writing a blog. A newsletter.”

“Oh! That nice. I’d love to be able to retire too.”

Initially, I wanted to know if I could write again. I was a copywriter in a previous life, when writing ads was still a relevant trade. I wanted to know if I could, like what all those YouTubers say, make money from writing. You know, those digital nomads who work 3 hours a week from a beach in Bali. I would like to know if I can do that too.

It’s been a year now since I began writing this blog.

I started with a WordPress site, but didn’t have the patience to learn how to navigate it effectively. I spent more time on “settings and themes” than on writing.

Then, I discovered Medium, which had an unusual business model. I would spend hours “reading”, “clapping”, and “commenting” on other writers’ work because that was how everyone got paid, until Medium changed the algorithms and kicked me out. I guess I was making a lot of money for other writers. It wasn’t sustainable, mainly because Medium couldn’t tell whether all that enthusiasm was genuine. There were many articles on how to game the algorithms in Medium.

Eventually, I migrated to Substack. And it was here that we met.

The curse

“There is no such thing as writer’s block. That was invented by people in California who couldn’t write.” — Terry Pratchett

I held my breath when I hit “publish” every single time. Writing feels a little like walking onto a stage without your pants on. I still have nightmares about walking onto a stage without my pants on. What will they think? Is this too blunt? Politically incorrect?

I rewrote, deleted, hesitated, and rewrote again, bothered by the thought that no one would care, or that they’d discover that I am not a real writer after all. Like, I am not a real chef because I never went to chef school.

This is the curse for anyone who dares to write.

I’m glad we met

But then, you came. You subscribed, and even left a comment now and then. You read; you stayed. You made me feel less like a stranger shouting into the wilderness, and more like someone who had just joined an interesting conversation at the bar.

You listened. And that matters.

The audience are the lifeblood of writers. They give our work meaning and purpose. I have learned much from other writers here on Substack.

But the truth is, I had too much to say. I was self-absorbed. I was caught up in the chaotic relief of finally letting the ideas I’ve kept for so long out. I had several freelance gigs that became a distraction until I decided to return.

Here, I write for you.

So why do I write?

I have to. I have no choice. The five years when I worked mostly alone in the kitchen, six days a week, have bottled up enormous volumes of feelings, thoughts, and arguments. All those inner conversations needed venting.

I was looking for my voice as much as a pair of kind ears.

“A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity.” — Frank Kafka

Writing became the valve where my curiosity, passions, and (sometimes) quiet indignation found a way to escape. It was how I untangle the knots inside, silently whispered the wisdom of my ancestors, and faced the demons that kept me awake at night.

Writing was my therapy.

Sharing Knowledge

Knowledge is one of the most beautiful gifts anyone can seek, but it is useless if not shared. This past year, I have learned more than decades of work and study. I write when I learn, and I learn when I write. I ask questions that I haven’t asked or daren’t ask before. I explored history, philosophy, superstitions, and wherever my curiosity took me. I reflect on my mistakes and dream about the future. I even shared my thoughts on the science of poaching Hainanese chicken and making an easy Laksa.

Writing lets me entertain thoughts. Musing musings. Ideas that I never knew existed. Revolutionary ideas. Forbidden ideas. Ideas that will end all poverty and bring about the Great Unity (天下大同). Writing allowed me to entertain my curiosity, which has led me to many wonderful places and some not-so-wonderful places, too. But that’s the nature of knowledge.

“Learning is finding out what you already know. Doing is demonstrating that you know it. Teaching is reminding others that they know just as well as you.” Richard Bach – Illusion.

Learning is a strange thing. Once you know something, it feels like you have always known it. It’s like when they say, “You can’t unsee what you have seen.” The same is true with learning.

Conversations with myself

Writing is like a conversation: sometimes, it’s just me with myself, and other times, I am talking to many, many other selves. With my dead parents and forebears, with my son and grandchildren, with my mistakes and achievements, my hopes and my fears. My gods and my demons. Lao Tzu and Dr Strange from the Avengers.

Sometimes, there are quarrels and disagreements bordering on violence; other times, it feels like courtship, a slow and gentle persuasion about keeping your eyes on the road when you drive. Back and forth, over and over, until the veins run dry.

A compulsion, as much as a passion.

It’s a kind of magic.

“I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking.” — Joan Didion

I often smile to myself when an idea pops into my head out of nowhere. Especially if it is an interesting idea. A funny idea. A cunning idea. A devious idea. I wonder where they come from. It feels like I’ve tapped into a giant repository where all ideas are born and live. Is this the elusive muse who visits and teases and leaves without warning?

My wife sometimes catches me and asks suspiciously, “What are you smiling about?” I have learned to always share the idea, honestly. I go into oratory mode and ramble the thoughts as quickly as I can, as if trying to catch a butterfly just inches away from me. Then, I take out my phone, open Google Docs, and write down as much as I can before it vanishes.

Of course, magic doesn’t happen all the time. Usually just when I least expect it.

But I always smile when I have a new subscriber. It’s not the same as “Likes”. A subscriber has to go through the process. Give an email address and download the app to come on the journey. You may even read, leave a comment and share your thoughts. And you have to be convinced that it is not a waste of time. That’s such an affirmation!

So I write because of you. For you. I see you when I write: my family and my friends, my fellow Substackers and ex-Medium writers, old souls and curious minds. I see us having a pot of Oolong, sitting across from each other, talking about small gods and big ideas, Daoist philosophy and Chinese Gastronomy, about ugly delicious and dumpling economics. I feel your presence now, even as I write. And what a privilege this has been.

So, thank you. Thank you for being here, for coming along and staying, for supporting tanfrancis, for your kind replies, your shared thoughts, and especially your paid subscriptions. I am deeply grateful.

If this blog mattered to you, helped you reflect, laugh, or look at the world a little differently, I invite you to “upgrade” your subscription. But a word of warning: There are no immediate or additional benefits apart from my gratitude. It helps me keep writing and keep this blog accessible and alive.

No pressure.

Otherwise, I am just as happy that you are here. It gets lonely sometimes. But I’ll be here for a while, at least another year. Writing, listening, sometimes with a silly grin.

And occasionally, staring at a blank screen and hoping that my muse will visit soon.

Yours, Francis