Notes from Two Years of Writing

When I started writing, I thought the task was simple. Describe the thing, report the facts, make it sound sharp. At some point during the first two years of writing semi seriously, I began to realise that a style is not something you consciously construct. It is what surfaces when you remove everything that is not you. There was no plan at the beginning and absolutely no attempt to shape a voice. What I had were drafts that felt awkward and overwrought, sentences that tried too hard, and a vague sense that writing was supposed to sound a certain way because that is how other people sounded. Over time, I discovered that a style forms slowly through repetition and self editing, revealing itself as you shed the habits that were never yours to begin with.

This is not a blueprint, only an account of what I learned, offered for anyone curious about developing a voice of their own. Nobody asked, but I am going to tell you anyway.

When I look back at my earlier work, I can see how often I wrote with someone else’s voice echoing in my head. In the early months, I read writers like Erik Gustafson (Hairspring), Tony Traina (Unpolished), Chris Hall (The Fourth Wheel), or Jack Forster (Split Seconds/1916 Company) as references more than influences. Their work showed me that watch writing could be compact, thoughtful, and quietly pointed without drifting into technical monotony. I never wanted to imitate them, but reading them helped me understand the value of concision and restraint. The funny part is that my first attempts were nowhere near restrained. They were dense and cluttered with extra phrasing. If I was unsure about a point, I padded the paragraph. If I lacked confidence in my knowledge, I compensated with more adjectives. The writing looked busy instead of clear.

I also wrote too frequently, perhaps partly out of enthusiasm and partly out of pressure to keep producing. I assumed momentum came from quantity. It took time to recognise that writing for the sake of writing did not help me grow. The output increased, but the work did not improve. Eventually, I reached a point where I decided to slow down and focus on quality. I wrote fewer pieces, but each one felt more intentional. That shift changed everything. When you allow yourself to write only when you have something worth shaping, the voice that transpires feels more grounded and far more honest.

Another reason writing became central to how I communicate is that I have always struggled to articulate my thoughts cleanly in person. Speaking forces ideas to arrive fully formed, and mine almost never do. They come in fragments, half-shaped, overlapping with each other. Writing acts as a buffer between what I think and what you receive. It slows the pace to something manageable, and lets me arrange the pieces before they scatter. That buffer became essential and it allowed me to express things that would otherwise collapse under the pressure of immediacy. Over time, I realised that the voice I was developing on the page was simply the version of myself that finally had room to think without interruption.

When I first started writing, my sentences were also weighed down by hesitation. I added qualifiers because I worried about sounding too confident. In time, I realised that clarity is not arrogance. It is simply the removal of clutter. The more I cut, the stronger the writing became. This was the first major step in developing my style. I stopped padding my thoughts and began trusting them. Editing became the real work, and drafts that once felt complete turned into raw material waiting to be refined. That shift toward conscious editing taught me far more than any stylistic rule.

Another influence came from noticing how the writers I admired handled detail. They conveyed technical information without drowning in it and expressed knowledge without falling into the tone of an instruction manual. That observation changed how I approached watch writing. Instead of listing components, I looked for the intention behind them. A movement architecture reflects an attitude. A dial layout expresses a choice. A design compromise hints at the priorities of a brand. Once I started treating watches as evidence of human decision making, the writing became more textured and more personal.

A year in, I received one of the most useful pieces of writing advice anyone has ever given me. It came from Erik, who shared a hierarchy of journalism that he keeps printed in front of him. At the top, he underlined a single instruction. Spend as much time as possible in Category 1 and avoid Category 4. It sounds simple, but following it changed how I think. Here is the framework as he laid it out:

Category 1
New information that has never been shared.
New opinions from the people directly involved.
New details or facts that feel like something you would want to tell a friend.
Firsthand perspective or quotes.

Category 2
Connecting old events in a way that has not been done before.
Assembling opinions into a new context.
Secondhand quotes used to build a narrative.

Category 3
Established history that has been repeated across many sources.
Facts that anyone can easily look up.

Category 4
Pure opinion.

Integrating this framework into my process forced me to stop relying on the easy way out. If a draft drifted toward the lower categories, I paused and asked what I was actually adding. Was I offering anything that readers could not already find? Was I bringing firsthand experience or new context? Was I writing for someone who cared or simply filling space because I felt obligated to produce something?These questions became an internal compass. They pulled me toward work that was more thoughtful, grounded, and respectful of the reader.

Another part of developing a consistent voice came from learning to write in full thoughts. Early drafts were chopped into too many short sentences. It gave everything a staccato quality that I liked at first because it felt energetic, but over time I realised it was draining the writing of depth. Short sentences can create rhythm and impact, but when everything is short nothing feels intentional. I had to learn how to expand a thought without losing clarity. Longer sentences let you explore nuance, reveal more of your internal reasoning, and create the reflective tone people often associate with voice driven writing.

I also learned that tone is not something you sculpt deliberately. Tone grows out of consistent choices. If you write with precision often enough, the work feels precise. If you write with curiosity, the work feels curious. I only discovered my own tone after noticing patterns across many pieces. It was reflective, measured, occasionally dry, and grounded in interpretation rather than proclamation. The more I leaned into it, the more natural the writing felt. Trying to sound like someone else always created tension, but trying to sound like myself felt effortless.

To strengthen that consistency, I developed the habit of questioning the writing during revision. I asked whether a sentence earned its place or whether a paragraph carried too many competing ideas, or I looked for moments where the pacing fell flat or where a metaphor added weight rather than clarity. These questions sharpened my internal editor. Over time I found that drafts started cleaner because I had learned to hear the shape of a sentence as I wrote it. The voice became more defined because my process became more intentional.

Equally important was learning what not to include. In a field where history, context, and technical detail all matter, the temptation is to show everything you know. I used to over explain out of a desire to be thorough, but eventually I realised that excessive context dilutes the central point. A reader benefits more from clarity than density. Strong writing respects the reader’s intelligence by leaving space for interpretation. Once I stopped filling every gap, the writing gained focus.

Another discovery was that ideas that feel obvious to the writer often feel original to the reader. Writers tend to undervalue their own instincts because they assume everyone notices the same details. Recognising the value of your own lens is a significant part of developing a voice. If a design choice strikes you as strange or charming, explore it. If an unexpected comparison presents itself, follow it. The writing becomes more authentic when you stop muting your instincts.

I also worked to avoid the tone of a press release. In the watch world, polished marketing language can seep in without your noticing. I made a conscious effort to focus on the human side of the process instead. Designers weigh constraints. Engineers chase precision. Collectors build myths. Brands take risks and make missteps. These dynamics shape the object more than any tagline. When I wrote with that mindset, the work felt more grounded and less ornamented.

Reading outside my niche did more for my style than anything else. Fiction taught me pacing and patience. Longform journalism taught me discipline. Criticism taught me how to express opinion without force. I especially enjoy the works of Mark Fisher and Byung-Chul Han. Neither writes about watches, but both shaped how I approach tone and structure. Fisher showed me how clarity and melancholy can coexist without becoming heavy. Han taught me how restraint and precision can create an almost architectural calm in writing. Their work made me realise that style is about the emotional temperature you choose to hold on the page. That understanding helped me refine my own approach. These influences blended into something that did not match any single one but strengthened my writing as a whole. If you only read what you hope to produce, you limit your possibilities. Broader reading expands the range of tone and rhythm you can draw from.

A major turning point came when I realised I needed a space to practise without the pressure of writing about watches all the time. Not everything I wanted to think about fit neatly into that world, and restricting myself to a single subject made the writing feel narrower than my curiosity. I started another outlet on Substack called non-entity, mostly as a place to run writing exercises, test ideas, and explore topics well outside horology. It wasn’t meant to be serious. But even in that light form, it helped me see how different subjects draw out different parts of my voice. Some ideas required more patience, others needed sharper framing, others became clearer only when I wrote them without any expectation of publishing. That small space reminded me that developing a voice often happens in the margins rather than the main work. When you allow yourself to write outside your usual category, even casually, the writing inside your niche becomes more confident and less confined.

If there is one principle that helped me more than any other this past year, it is the decision to prioritise quality over quantity. I no longer write simply to publish something. I write when I have a point worth exploring or an idea that carries weight. Producing less allowed each piece to grow more deliberately. My voice strengthened not because I wrote constantly, but because I wrote with intention.

For anyone curious about building a voice of their own, here is what I learned. Write consistently enough to stay sharp but not so reflexively that you lose purpose. Read widely. Edit with attention. Pay close interest to the tone and pacing. Trust your instincts. Cut what weakens the rest. Treat the object you are writing about as something shaped by real people. And give yourself the permission to write only when the work deserves to exist.