Sitting here in Pacific Coffee, near the Convention Centre in Hong Kong, I have been enjoying a few moments of relative calm in what is otherwise a rather busy day. This morning I have been writing my introductory words for the exciting Outstanding Schools conference in Dubai in early November, and preparing for my forthcoming FOBISIA leadership workshop (at the FOBISIA annual conference in Bangkok in mid-November); this afternoon I have a pile of leadership policies to work through for Dalton School Hong Kong; and this evening I shall be joining the Board of Light Up Learning, the very special Scottish educational charity which I chair, for our Strategy Day. (We had all intended to be there in person, but my travels have rather got in the way, and so we moved online; I am grateful to the other Trustees for their flexibility in this regard!)
And what am I doing in this precious little gap in the day? Well … thinking and writing, of course! This has got me thinking again about why I write – why, when nobody is asking me to write, and when there are plenty of other things clamouring for my attention, do I take the time to sit down, craft sentences, and compose text for others to read?
On reflection, I know that there are several reasons, the first of which is that writing helps me to think. If you could see inside my mind, you would find it brimming with ideas, thoughts, challenges, provocations, wonders … it is relentlessly full of ideas, some more fully formed than others; sometimes I just need to take one of these ideas out for a bit of an intellectual wander, to bring some order and sense to it. The idea I pick might be something that has emerged from a conversation, something I have read, a question that has been troubling me, or just simply something that I have observed which has set me wondering. Quite often, in fact, I sit down to write with only an outline of where I am going, and it is in the process of putting words to the idea that I sharpen my own thinking, and I discover what I actually do believe and think.
When I write, I find that ideas lead to other ideas, and connections emerge between thoughts and experiences which had previously seemed quite separate. I am frequently energised by the juxtaposition of different insights, which lead in turn to the formation of new and creative analogies and metaphors; speaking these aloud in the moment is one step towards elucidating them, but finding the right words to craft these into something that others can read is a step beyond.
The sheer discipline of writing is another reason I write, of course; I find it enormously satisfying to play with words, and to tease them into place until they come as close as possible to expressing precisely what I mean. It is surprisingly easy to have a thought which seems perfectly clear in one’s head, only to discover that it becomes rather less coherent when one tries to explain it to somebody else. Writing exposes the gaps in our thinking rather mercilessly, which can be irritating, but is also tremendously useful.
Finding a better word, rearranging a sentence, stripping out an unnecessary paragraph, or recognising that something which sounded terribly clever when first written is actually rather pretentious (and therefore probably needs to go) … these are some of the skills that writing demands of the writer. There is something therapeutic about the process of juggling words and syntax, particularly when so much of life seems to demand instant, superficial responses that can so easily lead us down dangerous rabbit holes of assumption, the enemy of genuine communication. Writing makes me slow down and think more carefully about what I mean, and what I really want to say.
I am certain that this discipline has helped me enormously in my professional life. Leadership involves a great deal of communication, and I have become increasingly aware over the years of the gap which can exist between what we intend to communicate and what other people actually hear or understand. We can be remarkably attached to our own words, and to the assumption that everyone else will understand them as we do. Having to work at making an idea clear, without losing the nuance or complexity which makes it interesting in the first place, is a useful exercise in humility.
And yet probably best of all, writing brings connection. I have been extraordinarily fortunate in my professional life to work with people in all sorts of places, in very different contexts, and with an astonishing range of experiences and perspectives – and you all live in my head. One of the things I enjoy most is the opportunity to exchange ideas, and I have found that writing is a lovely way of continuing those conversations, and of starting entirely new ones. Sometimes a blog will prompt somebody to get in touch with their own experience, or to share an idea which takes my thinking rather further. And sometimes a piece will resonate with somebody I have never met, perhaps on the other side of the world, who has been wrestling with much the same questions.
There is something rather magical about that. An idea which begins in one person’s head, perhaps over a cup of tea in Hong Kong, can end up sparking a conversation somewhere quite different. And, in the process, it grows and changes, as other people bring their own experiences and perspectives to it. I find that mindbogglingly joyful.
So that is why I keep writing, perhaps above all because of this joyfulness; and that seems to me of itself to be a perfectly good reason for doing something.
I have now spent rather longer in Pacific Coffee than I intended, and the leadership policies are still awaiting my attention. They will involve plenty of writing too, of course, although perhaps rather less opportunity for intellectual wandering.
One more cup of tea then, perhaps, before I get started …
