How do you write what people actually want to read?

It’s an interesting question.

And, if I’m being completely honest, I’m not entirely sure I do.

I don’t mean that to sound arrogant.

Quite the opposite.

I’m probably one of the least commercially minded writers you’re ever likely to meet.

I don’t sit down at my keyboard thinking:

Right, Bob. What will the internet like today?

What’s going to get the most clicks?

What’s going to go viral?

What will the algorithm be particularly fond of?

If I did, I’d probably have given up years ago.

The truth is, I started writing for a completely different reason.

I needed somewhere to put the stuff rattling around inside my head.

Twenty-odd years ago, my “poetry” was barely poetry at all.

I called them scribbles.

Still do, actually.

They were thoughts, emotions, anger, fear, confusion and occasionally a bit of hope, thrown onto paper because keeping everything inside clearly wasn’t working terribly well.

Writing became a form of therapy.

The scribbles eventually became poems.

The poems eventually became books.

And somehow, along the way, people started reading them.

Which still amazes me.

Because I never really set out to become a poet.

I certainly didn’t start writing because I thought:

One day, thousands of people might read this.

I was just trying to make sense of myself.

And perhaps that’s the answer to the question.

Maybe you don’t write what people want to read.

Maybe you write what you need to say.

And then you hope that somewhere out there, somebody needs to hear it.

That’s certainly how I approach this blog.

Some days I’ll write about mental health.

Some days it might be something completely ridiculous.

Photography.

A walk.

A memory.

A book.

A film.

Something that made me laugh.

Something that pissed me off.

Something that made me stop and think.

And occasionally, for reasons known only to the universe, I’ll write about bloody crows.

There isn’t necessarily a grand content strategy behind it.

It’s just me.

Rambling.

Hence the name.

And yes, I’m aware that there are probably people who read something I’ve written and think:

What the hell was that bloke going on about?

Fair question.

I’ve asked myself the same thing.

But here’s the thing.

I don’t normally write poetry, scribbles, or these ramblings because I want to be liked.

I don’t write them because I want everyone to agree with me.

And I certainly don’t write them because I expect everyone to enjoy them.

I write because it helps.

It helps me process things.

It helps me understand what I’m thinking.

Sometimes it helps me put a name to an emotion I couldn’t quite identify before.

And sometimes, putting something down on paper means I can stop carrying it around in my head.

That’s why the mental health side of my writing has always mattered so much to me.

There have been times when writing wasn’t just a creative outlet.

It was part of keeping my head above water.

Poetry gave me a way of taking all that internal noise and turning it into something I could actually look at.

Something I could shape.

Something I could eventually put down.

And then something rather lovely happened.

Other people started saying:

“I understand that.”

Or:

“I’ve felt like that.”

Or:

“Thank you for writing this.”

And that’s when you realise that something you wrote purely to help yourself can sometimes become useful to somebody else.

That, to me, is the magic bit.

Not the numbers.

Not the views.

Not the likes.

Not whether something gets shared fifty times on Facebook.

Although, obviously, if you do want to share it fifty times, I won’t complain.

I’m not completely bloody stupid.

But that isn’t why I write.

If somebody reads something I’ve written and gets something from it, brilliant.

If somebody laughs, even better.

If somebody sees themselves in one of my poems and realises they aren’t quite as alone as they thought they were, then bloody hell…

That’s worth more than any number on a screen.

So, how do you write what people actually want to read?

I honestly don’t know.

I suspect there are people far cleverer than me who can explain algorithms, audience engagement, SEO, demographics and all the other mysterious machinery that apparently makes the internet go round.

Me?

I just write.

I write what interests me.

I write what bothers me.

I write what makes me laugh.

I write what hurts.

I write what I’m trying to understand.

And sometimes I write complete and utter nonsense because my brain has apparently decided that’s what we’re doing today.

And if people want to read it?

Well…

That’s a happy little accident.

(Bob Ross would approve.)

The funny thing is, though, perhaps the best writing isn’t created by trying desperately to please an audience.

Perhaps it comes from being honest enough to say the thing you actually wanted to say.

Because somewhere, there might be someone who needed those exact words.

I never expected my scribbles to become twenty years of poetry, six books, guest publications and all the other amazing things that have happened along the way.

I certainly didn’t have a five-year plan.

I had a pen.

A head full of noise.

And a desperate need to get some of it out.

Everything else has been a happy little accident.

And I think I’m quite happy keeping it that way.

So I’ll carry on rambling.

I’ll carry on scribbling.

I’ll carry on taking photographs.

I’ll carry on writing about mental health, life, love, the ridiculousness of being human, and whatever else wanders into my head.

If you enjoy it, thank you.

If something I write helps you, even better.

And if you don’t like it…

Well, there are plenty of other blogs on the internet.

No hard feelings.

I’ll still be here tomorrow.

Probably writing something nobody asked for.

And quite possibly enjoying myself immensely while I do it.

Stay safe,

BC