A Few Thoughts on Writing

Lately, I haven’t been writing as much as I used to. Most of the posts I upload to this blog are either commissioned pieces or the occasional book review, and those come even more infrequently. It’s not that my desire to write has completely faded. Sometimes, I still feel a sudden urge to put my thoughts into words. It might strike while I’m walking around the lake behind my apartment complex after dinner, or as I lie in bed waiting for sleep at the end of the day. At those moments, ideas worth writing down bubble up in my mind.

But they rarely make it onto the page. I get stuck at “I want to write” and fail to cross over into “I’m writing.” A whole week passes like that, and before I know it, it’s Friday evening. On the drive home, I resolve to write something over the weekend. But once I get home, that determination fades. I find excuses to let the time pass, and suddenly it’s already Sunday night. It feels too late to start anything new. To begin Monday with a clear mind, I tell myself to turn off the lights and get to sleep. Then I try to convince myself again: “I’ve rested well this weekend, so I’ll write after work during the week.” But that’s not persuasion—it’s an excuse. Like the ouroboros, the snake that eats its own tail, my cycle of postponement and regret keeps looping.

One thing is clear: it’s not my environment that’s making writing hard. Thinking back to the COVID-19 pandemic, my current workload is nothing by comparison. I’m surrounded by capable colleagues who take responsibility for their tasks. Even the senior staff—perhaps the most reasonable and humane I’ve ever worked with—create a healthy work environment. I find fulfillment in my job, where I get to help people without being driven by money. If I ever look back on this time, I might think of it as a golden age of my life. Yet even in the midst of such abundance, I still can’t seem to write.

Ironically, the time I wrote the most was during my surgical residency at the National Medical Center over a decade ago. Compared to now, those days were grueling. I was chronically sleep-deprived, my mind always foggy, and the hospital was a tense place where life and death hung in the balance. The atmosphere was often harsh, with little kindness to go around. I wanted to quit multiple times each day. And yet, I managed to write two book reviews every week. In hindsight, perhaps that hardship didn’t hinder my writing—it fueled it. In contrast, maybe my current comfort, or rather the lack of intellectual friction, is what’s getting in the way.

But that’s not the full picture. It’s not that I lack things to write about. On the surface, the public health center where I work may seem mundane compared to an emergency room or an ice-cold, high-stress operating room. But it’s still a workplace where people gather, and like any other workplace, all sorts of things happen.

When the workload piles up, stress follows. Generational differences sometimes cause subtle emotional misalignments. Occasionally, unexpected mistakes lead to tense interactions with the public. Even these ordinary events can be seeds for writing. On top of that, I travel to Singapore once a month to visit my wife and daughter. That experience gives me a broader perspective on the world—one I wouldn’t have gained by staying only in Korea. These moments, too, are full of writing potential.

So why, then, do I still hesitate to write? I have the time, the environment, and the material—what’s holding me back? Could there have been a change I’ve failed to notice? What is the difference between now and ten years ago? On this rare Sunday morning with no other plans, I take time to reflect. My thoughts converge on a few key reasons.

First, I’ve become aware that people are watching me. Among those reading this, some may know me personally. These days, people I’ve met through various personal and professional relationships often mention having read my recent posts. Perhaps it’s their way of expressing a friendly hello, or maybe it’s as casual as commenting on the news. Either way, I appreciate that they read and brought it up.

But things were different when I first started this blog ten years ago. Back then, it was a quiet space for organizing my thoughts, with occasional readers who had no personal connection to me. Writing for an anonymous audience allowed me to step out of reality and express myself freely. It was almost the only time I could breathe fresh air amid the stifling routine of life as an intern or resident.

Of course, blogs are public by nature, and anyone can read them. But knowing that family or coworkers are closely following what I write can be burdensome. Once I became aware that people I know were reading, I began to hesitate before exposing my raw thoughts.

This is especially true at work, and I suspect it has something to do with how my role has changed. Ten years ago, I was a subordinate carrying out instructions. Writing was a way to vent frustrations I couldn’t resolve in real life. The writing was often immature or opinionated, but it gave me relief. Judging by the number of comments, others seemed to relate.

Now, I manage over a hundred staff members. It’s a position where actions matter more than words. If I write beautifully but act poorly, it won’t be long before I lose respect. Even if I’m confident in my actions, outcomes can still go awry, because the world is unpredictable. That makes me cautious about publicly taking positions on right and wrong.

The second reason is a growing skepticism about writing as a medium for expressing thoughts. Writing is one of humanity’s greatest inventions, but as a tool for communication, it is far from perfect. Thoughts must first be translated into language, then turned into text. Readers must decode that text visually, interpret it through their nervous systems, and reconstruct meaning. Along the way, distortion and loss are inevitable.

Literature is the essence and foundation of human creativity, and history has proven its power. So maybe my doubts are just the complaints of someone who’s not writing well. But even if it’s not about skill, my concerns still have merit. The thoughts I record in writing may not be my original thoughts at all—they’ve been transformed and refined to fit the medium. And once released, those words might be understood differently from what I intended.

This became clear to me when I published a memoir about living with heart disease. The primary reason for writing it was to share my story with my daughter. But soon after its release, I began to question whether that purpose was truly fulfilled. Did my thoughts actually transfer to the page? Was what I wrote even a faithful representation of what I had initially felt?

If I could store and convey my thoughts as raw data—without needing to translate them into words—perhaps these issues would disappear. But if I can’t understand data that isn’t in language, can I still claim it represents my thoughts? After all, not all thoughts are linguistic. From maternal instincts to the sense of balance when riding a bike, many thoughts resist verbalization. Whether or not thoughts rely on language, storing and transmitting them as data could be more complete than using text. If that method ever becomes possible, writing as a communication tool may become obsolete. And if writing becomes unnecessary, then practicing it will too.

This brings me to the third reason: the rise of artificial intelligence. It’s like a camel’s head poking into the tent—it’s already here, and not just in theory. This presence of AI has become another reason I hesitate to write: the fear that the value of human authorship is disappearing. We’ve seen how quickly AI has permeated everyday life. And if we’re just at the beginning of the AI era, the changes still to come are beyond our imagination. No matter how hard I train as a writer, AI will soon surpass that level of ability. That’s not a prediction—it’s a certainty.

AI will outpace humans in writing in two major ways. First, in quality. Each AI-generated piece is the product of immense virtual training, on a scale no human can match. It will inevitably surpass even the best human writers. And there’s no going back. Second, in quantity. Soon, AI will flood the world with content, dominating what people read. In both quality and quantity, I, a human writer, simply cannot compete. That’s not pessimism—it’s realism.

In such a world, what value can a single, traditionally written piece of mine hold? Can it make any difference before and after it exists? This isn’t just a fear of being buried under an avalanche of AI content. It’s not just a question of polish or skill. It leads to a deeper question: what is the true value of human writing? And it challenges the very basis of that value—copyright.

I believe copyright will soon disappear. If anyone can write using AI and use the output as a public good, then what meaning is left in the act of writing? If we can’t write better than AI, and if AI’s output lacks exclusivity, then why argue for ownership? Why invest time and energy into something that offers no rights in return? Why write at all? It’s a difficult question to answer.

These are the three reasons I’ve found for why I’ve stopped writing. They may seem to come from different directions, but they converge in one place. Ultimately, the issue isn’t the environment or the audience. It’s me—the writer.

Reflecting on each of these reasons has helped me take a closer look at myself as someone who writes.

And now, I will begin writing again. Because before it’s for anyone else, writing is something I do for my own joy. There was a time when I cherished the freedom of writing without worrying about others’ opinions. Now, I’m grateful that people I know read what I write. If I can still write honestly knowing that family and friends are reading, then my words move beyond a personal monologue and into the realm of connection.

It’s okay if my writing doesn’t fully convey my thoughts. Once written, it’s no longer entirely mine—it takes on a life of its own. I can’t control how it’s read or interpreted, but the focus and immersion of the act of writing itself is a deeply personal experience. So writing itself matters more than what happens after.

AI will undoubtedly write more, and write better, than I ever can. Even if the idea of copyright changes beyond recognition, that’s okay. Because I still have the freedom to write what I want. AI writes what it’s told to write. But I write what I want to write. And that’s enough.