Existential Questions Every Writer Asks (And Why They Matter)

Writing is isolating work. It is solitary by nature. It requires you to sit still and live inside your own head for long stretches of time. It’s a beautiful thing, but it can also be intense and overwhelming.

When I was younger, I thought I wanted to be a writer, full stop. I imagined a life of books, quiet rooms and endless drafts. But over time (and into a 10-year professional writing career), I have realized that full-time writing demands a deep interior life. You have to spend a lot of time with your own thoughts. I am a Pisces, meaning I’m already a dreamy person. The last thing I need is more hours floating around in my inner world.

That is partly why I teach dance. It pulls me into my body and it puts me in rooms with people, which I’ve come to realize is something I need to survive. I also work in branding and PR, which keeps me outward facing and strategic. But writing is still my favorite thing in the world. It’s how I organize my thoughts, how I process my emotions, and how I make sense of what is happening around me. 

Reading does the same in reverse. It reminds me that someone else has felt this too.

Still, every writer runs into the same questions.

Does anyone care?

I have written so many pieces over the years. I have stared at this very blog and wondered who actually reads it. As a writer, sometimes it feels like you are speaking into a quiet room and waiting for an echo that never comes.

But then people surprise you.

Recently, a friend I deeply respect reached out. I hadn’t heard from her directly in years, but she told me she reads my blog all the time. In fact, she had even recommended it to someone else, which led to a new job opportunity for me. I had no idea.

You rarely see the full impact of your words, but that does not mean the impact is not there.

Am I actually good at this?

It is easy to question yourself because there are so many ways to write. There is no single formula. Voice, rhythm, structure, tone: it all shifts depending on who you are and what you are trying to say.

At the same time, there is such a thing as writing that lands and writing that does not. There is writing that moves people and writing that feels flat. Learning the difference takes time. Doubt can sharpen you if you let it. It can also silence you if you let it go too far.

The key is to keep writing anyway. Skill is built through repetition. Confidence is built through evidence.

Do I have anything original to say?

Every topic has been covered: love, ambition, grief, identity. Nothing is technically new.

But no one has lived your exact life. No one has your emotional wiring, your family dynamics, your specific memories. Even if two people describe the same event, the angle will be different.

Originality is not about inventing a new subject. It is about telling the truth from your vantage point. When you double down on your uniqueness instead of chasing someone else’s voice, the work becomes alive.

What if I am exposed?

Writing about your own life can feel risky. Writing about your family can feel even riskier. There is always a fear of being misunderstood or judged.

At some point, you have to decide what you are willing to share and what you are not. Boundaries matter. So does courage. You cannot write something honest while obsessing over how it will be received.

You have to care about the work more than you care about protecting your image.

Is this worth it?

This question hides behind a deeper one: What do you mean by “worth it?”

For me, writing is how I metabolize life. It is not a hobby: it is how I think. When something happens, I write about it to understand it. When I feel overwhelmed, I write to untangle it. When I feel joy, I write to hold onto it.

If I stopped writing, I would lose one of my primary ways of processing the world.

For me, that makes it worth it.

Who am I becoming?

Every piece of writing is a small decision about who you are. The themes you return to shape your identity. The ideas you repeat become part of your belief system. Over time, your body of work starts to reflect a pattern.

You are not just producing content. You are building a version of yourself in public.

That can feel heavy. It can also feel intentional.

Existential questions are not signs that you are failing as a writer. They are signs that you care. Writing asks you to confront yourself again and again. It asks you to sit in your own mind and make meaning out of it.

That is vulnerable work. It is also necessary.

And even when you wonder if anyone is reading, someone usually is.