“There is nothing so difficult in the matter of love as to write what one does not feel.”

Powerful, right? I read Dangerous Liaisons by Choderlos de Laclos a few weeks ago, and while so much stood out to me in this book—mostly the fact that books are, in fact, usually better than the movie and their infinite adaptations—one observation hit me hard. The book spoke to the eternal struggle of myself and, I imagine, every writer: the impossibility of crafting something genuine without authenticity. Words, at the end of the day, are more than just vehicles for expression—they are mirrors of intent. Or at least, they should be.

I wrote a story not long ago that will never see the light of day. The work was hollow and soulless. I crafted it with the intent of “virality.” The order of the words was right, the vocabulary was stunning, and the subject matter was on brand. The piece would have resonated with some audience somewhere. But the problem was the meaning behind the story. The intent wasn’t true. Needless to say, virality is a weak purpose. My story didn’t come from the soul and, because of that, it lacked the emotional conviction necessary to be worth saying.

Have you ever written something that sounded so perfect in your head but rang false on the page? Dangerous Liaisons teaches us that the difference between a heartfelt confession and a contrived statement lies in the unseen thread of intent that holds your words all together. Let’s use this book to talk about how we can make sure that your story has meaning.

The Misconception: Pretty Words Are Enough

It’s really easy to fall into the trap of thinking that poetic prose and great vocabulary alone make impactful writing. I mean, who doesn’t love poetic language? I could write this:

“The silver moonlight draped itself over the whispering waves, each ripple a secret untold, a fragment of eternity dissolving into the abyss of the sea. The stars blinked, indifferent, their brilliance a cold facade for the void that lay beyond. A gentle breeze carried the scent of forgotten dreams, stirring the branches of a lone tree that reached skyward as if pleading for answers to questions never asked. Time, an unyielding specter, hovered in the stillness, its passage marked only by the soft rustle of leaves, a melody without meaning.”

Beautiful, right? But what the hell does these sentences mean? Where is the emotional grounding, the intent, the purpose? Where is the soul? Dangerous Liaisons reveals that even the most elegantly arranged words can fail if they lack purpose. Writing is not just about surface structure but about the spirit that animates it. As the text says, “You may use the same words, but you do not put them in the same order, and that is sufficient to damn you.”

Take the Vicomte de Valmont, one of the novel’s protagonists. He sends a letter in his mission to seduce Madame de Tourvel, a married woman of great conviction and a bit naive. But the Marquise de Merteuil, the other protagonist, points out that pretty words are not enough. Valmont writes beautifully, yet exposes himself as fake and disingenuous. This falsehood is the danger of relying solely on aesthetics.

A quick Google search for “how to write poetic prose” will show you just how many people promise to teach you how to write that way. Moving within the laws of supply and demand, this content exists because we, as storytellers, are looking for it. However, without passion and intent, your structure becomes a cage, trapping your insincerity for all your audience to see.

The Problem: Why This Thinking Falls Flat

Our audience is smart. Smarter than we’d like sometimes. But you are part of the audience, so this fact should be no surprise. Think about it: you can sense when something feels wrong about a story. You can tell when writing feels inauthentic. Likewise, your audience can see lifelessness through well-put-together writing.

The warning I found most interesting in Dangerous Liaisons was that when writers focus on arrangement without feeling, their work becomes a hollow shell, free of any real emotional connection. The Marquise de Merteuil says, “There is an order in it which exposes you at every sentence.” This sentence alone called me out, and I hated it. It sucks feeling like a fraud, and it’s even worse when others can see it, too…and let you know about it.

Intent is the heart of all writing. Words must not only look good, but also carry the weight of what the writer truly means. Without that weight, even the most sophisticated sentence falls flat, leaving the reader untouched and uninspired.

The Fix: Write with Intent

“Okay, Jared, so you’ve beaten the point to death—how the heck do I fix it?”

To write with intent is to make sure that every word, phrase, and sentence serves a purpose beyond aesthetic. Bake purpose into everything you write. Think about the person you want to write for. What do you want them to feel? What do you want them to take away from it? Keep these answers constantly in the forefront of your mind.

I drafted this article and, I won’t lie, it was nothing but hollow bullshit, wagging its finger at you for eight paragraphs. But when I stopped and thought about who this is for, I realized this article is for the new writer, or the old writer, so focused on being on BookTok and being remembered for their prose that they’ve forgotten to write something of value. I wanted to speak directly to them, hold their hand, and say,

So, I did battle with my backspace key and dug in to write a piece that was true.

Dangerous Liaisons shows us that true writing is not about WHAT is said, but WHY and HOW it’s said. “The author works himself into a passion, but it leaves the reader cold,” de Laclos warns. To ensure you’re not leaving your audience cold, focus on three key pillars:

• Authenticity: What is the truth you are trying to convey?

• Purpose: Who and what is it for? Are you trying to paint a world, expose societal issues, or inspire?

• Alignment: How does the arrangement of your words amplify the truth and connect your authenticity to your purpose?

If you’ve never read Dangerous Liaisons, I suggest you do. It’s an epistolary novel, and the letters are an amazing lesson in saying what you mean with purpose and drive. Each word serves a purpose. Whether it’s manipulation, seduction, or destruction, the intention is clear. De Laclos’ conviction is felt on every page, transforming what could have been a shallow tale of rich French people into a profound lesson on how communication shapes worlds.

A New Way to Think

Writing without intent is like speaking gibberish to your audience’s heart. They may hear words, but they won’t feel them. If your audience doesn’t feel anything, why the hell would they continue to read?

Words are amazing. I am a storyteller—I joke that I’m married to words; my wife is merely my mistress. For me, I write to feel and because I hope to make you feel just as much. I want you to aim to do the same. You are one of the few, in the grand scheme of things, adding to the fabric of our civilization’s story. Make your contribution worthwhile by saying words that matter.

Readers don’t crave perfect sentences—they crave genuine emotion. Stories that stick with you don’t stay because you found a way to get the phrase,

‘oceans of gold spun from the cosmic yarn’

into your story. They stay because they make you feel something. They piss you off, make you smile, make you laugh, or break your heart (this is the one that my editor says I’m taking years off her life with).

TL;DR: Your Mission (Should You Choose to Accept)

I pose a suggestion—a challenge, even. Forget perfection. Don’t even try to chase it. Write ugly. Write raw. Write filthy (no, not spice—but you can if that’s your thing). Focus only on these two questions:

• What do I want to make my reader feel?

• How do the words I’ve chosen serve the emotional purpose of this piece?

Prioritize connection over performance. Every draft doesn’t need to be flawless. Authenticity is often messy, raw, and unpolished. Let it be. Editing will refine that raw truth into something clearer and more impactful. Connection over perfection.

Let intent be the backbone of your work. The goal isn’t to inform but to transform. The next time you write, don’t just arrange words. Make them mean something. Write with conviction, precision, and, most importantly, passion. Do that, and your story will become more than a story—it will become gospel.

A raw, unedited, radically honest letter from OBA’s founder to you, brave storyteller, about how to tell your truth in public and stay whole while doing it.

Dear Radical,

You know what I hate? I hate when people say, “I’m still trying to find my voice.” And the reason why is because you’ve never actually lost it.

Your voice is not something that you search for. It’s already in you. From the moment you began talking and developing opinions and thoughts and beliefs, your voice began to be born.

Then teachers told you that you had to follow the rules. Editors told you that you needed to fit within a specific mold or be more professional. Perhaps someone even told you that your work wasn’t very good, that you weren’t very talented, or you should maybe choose a different career path. Somewhere in there, you stop liking the sound of you.

You collect your favorite authors, your favorite writers, your favorite directors, your favorite influencers, your favorite people. And because they do it so well, you try to imitate them. Sometimes indirectly, but you think,

They said this word or these words in this order and that worked, so I should try something similar.

What you end up doing is letting someone else’s voice drown out your own.

So what is voice, exactly? Most people think voice means style, sentence flow, word choice, rhythm. But that’s not really voice. Those things are icing. They’re the things that you put over the structure that’s underneath. The structure that’s underneath is what really matters.

Your voice is your emotional frequency. It’s your worldview. Your humanity. It’s what leaks through when you stop trying to sound smart or polished or professional or even poetic. Your voice isn’t how you write, it’s how you see. And how honest you’re willing to be about what you see.

So the big question is: why do we tend to “lose” our voice?

You lose your voice every time you start writing for approval. This is not uncommon—I consistently write thinking about what other people will think. When you write, you are more than likely thinking about Booktok, or the writers group that you hang out with, or about being a best seller.

Is this piece that I am writing going to be good enough for other people?

Does this sound on the level of a professional?

When you get trapped in this thinking, you start to edit yourself out mid-sentence. You imagine who might read your writing and then automatically start trying to polish it to fit their taste — not yours. Not the way that you prefer to speak, to express yourself, to show up.

We’re taught to sound a specific way instead of human. Which I think we should buck against, because one of the biggest complaints that many of us have about AI is that it doesn’t sound human. Yet we are constantly trying to polish ourselves to sound professional; sound like something approved; sound like a bestselling author; sound like somebody who is successful. And in doing that, we don’t sound human.

But the stuff that connects — the sentences that make someone stop scrolling or turning pages — they’re supposed to be messy. They’re supposed to be alive.

Yes, you will edit. Your editor and you will clean up and strengthen and clarify many things. But if you write true to your voice in the first place, being unapologetically yourself on the page, then your editor has a chance to work with you to shape something marketable while still remaining true to who you are.

A good editor will not edit out your voice, they will maintain your voice. Why? Because that’s the story you set out to tell. That’s the story that your soul knows needs to be told. Your story doesn’t have to land with everyone in order for the right people to find it.

You don’t lose your voice because you can’t write. You lose it because you’re afraid of being judged. Afraid of being misunderstood. Afraid of being rejected by some imaginary reader who doesn’t even exist yet.

So how do you get your voice back?

1. Radical honesty. The thing you never want your mom to read? Write it. The stuff that you would be embarrassed to say in public? Write it. If it scares you, it’s probably your real voice talking.

2. Radical curiosity. Ask why you see the world the way you do. Your trauma, your humor, your contradictions. That’s your lens. That’s your voice. That’s the way you see things. Voice isn’t found with grammar or polished work. It’s found by perspective.

3. Radical consistency. You can’t find your voice in one draft. I’m sorry, but it’s not gonna happen. Write enough to recognize your own patterns. What do you notice? How do you phrase things? What do you always circle back to? That is your fingerprint.

Your voice will become stronger the moment you stop trying to prove you deserve to have one. So keep writing. Lean into yourself. Find the parts of you that you are afraid to share with the rest of the world and put it on the page. The fine-tuning will sort itself out later, with a good editor.

I promise you this, you don’t need to find your voice. You need to unlearn all the extra shit that is drowned out. Every page you write, every story you tell, it’s an act of remembering who you were before you edited yourself or someone else edited you.

Your voice isn’t out there waiting to be found. It’s not some secret Easter egg that’s waiting on a quest on the top of some mountain. Your voice has been inside of you and waiting for you to come home from the beginning.

Stop trying to sound “good.” Start trying to sound true.

Love Always,

Finding the courage and confidence to write a bestseller with your own messy, vulnerable, human voice is HARD. One Brilliant Arc’s editors and publishing consultants know how to guide you through the harrowing journey. We promise to help you tell your story your way, in your voice, without compromise. Schedule a ✨free✨ consultation with an OBA story coach and we’ll help you create a plan to do just that!

Book Your FREE Consult!

Dear Radical,

I agonized over writing this letter. I haven’t written anything since December and even more I haven’t thought about what I would say if I had to write something. But I sat down to write today because I was thinking of you. I hope that I can be vulnerable with you, and if I may, share a story.

It was Friday, maybe Sunday. I don’t really remember, but I was sitting on a carpeted staircase, the sun peaking in through the transom window. Darth Vader had Aladdin dangling from the top step and was preparing to give the greatest speech in the history of all villainy. I, being the greatest director and maybe playwright my 8-year-old world had ever known, had crafted a magnificent adventure with this thrilling climactic moment for my protagonist.

Xena the warrior princess and Hamburgler were waiting at the bottom step for Aladdin to make his daring escape. The Lion King Hyenas salivated at the prospect of a delectable meal. Aladdin’s quippy remark was at the ready as he plotted to escape Vader and the Empire’s evil plans. It was all planned, every heart-pounding moment. What wasn’t planned was the giant boogeyman, whom i then would have affectionately referred to as my father, looming in front of me, his shadow cutting into the setting sun.

“What you doing boy?” The boogeyman bellowed.

“Playing…” I proclaimed.

“You doing that voice thing again?”

I started to explain the need for the stars of my show to have dialogue, but the boogeyman wouldn’t have it.

“The fuck is wrong with you? I told you, be a man. A man don’t talk to himself, he don’t play. Be a fucking man. You keep it up I’mma whoop your ass.”

Vader stopped mid-monologue, Aladdin tumbled to the step below, all of us frozen under the boogeyman’s apathetic stare. My lower lip trembled and the words that dared to peek out at him shriveled at the crown of my throat.

Be a man. Be a man. I held onto the words, dragging them up the stairs with my toys, tucking them in with me when i went to bed, swallowing them at breakfast the next day. Be a Man.

The words were meant to make me strong. They were designed to help me fulfill a destiny he and all those before him expected me to fill. Instead he taught me to be silent. And silence as a Black boy who is poor, mentally ill, neurodivergent, pansexual, and who is being taught that his every ambition must have a ceiling, is the first lesson the system needed me to learn.

And my father wasn’t the only one complicit in this lesson. The Church, my school, my neighbors, the streets taught me very early: my voice was dangerous, my play was foolish, and my success was unlikely.

As I sit here and think back to that day, I know it was that moment when i started to believe that lie. I carried it with me in every decision I made in my teenage years and into my adulthood. It was the lie that encouraged me to stay on disability, to not try to pursue anything of value, to resign myself to a life of smallness.

We all have that moment. Those words someone says to us. We learn to let it live in our bones, as if it had been there since our birth. We let it convince us that the jobs we want, we aren’t qualified for. The places we want to visit, the communities, relationships and friends we want to have, are far beyond our reach. That the closest we can get to our dreams is in our sleep.

This lie of silence permeated my every waking moment. It rode along with me until I came crashing into my mortality itself. Cancer. Thyroid Cancer. It sought to end the 26 years I had spent on this planet. And what did I have to show for those years? Fear. Doubt. And a lie that had been my comfort since I was that 8-year-old boy on the steps.

I had a choice: Live in the comfort of my lie, do nothing, and die. Or learn a new truth, fight, and hopefully survive.

I chose the latter. Survival became my gateway to breaking the rules. to shattering the lie. They told me I would die in the same town I was born in. I moved to a different state three times. They told me I would never have an actual job. I got a few and then started a company. They told me I would always be alone. I built a team. They said I was too Black. Too weak. Too dumb. I became unapologetic. Powerful. And brilliant.

I see it clear as day now. They want us silent, empty, living at the mercy of a status quo that makes THEM comfortable. But the lesson I hold now as I look back at this is that: when someone wants you to be quiet, it isn’t because what you have to say isn't worth hearing. It’s because it is. Oppressive systems prefer silence because people speaking up is the most terrifying thing they can imagine.

It is because of this that I refuse to carry that lie another day of my life. I reject the belief that I am too much. That my voice isn’t worth sharing. That I have a ceiling. I refuse to make myself small for their comfort. I will not comply in advance, handing over my voice to make a liar feel like a truth teller. I am not that 8-year-old boy on the staircase anymore. I am the man they were terrified I’d become.

You have a lie you’ve been living. Don’t pretend that you don't. Don’t hide behind it, or make excuses for why it still exists. My dearest radical, who put that lie in your mouth? Who told you that you had to believe it? Perhaps you didn’t have an abusive father, or church, or school system. Perhaps your skin color wasn’t the thing they used against you. But it was something. Who profits from you believing the lie? How much longer will you allow them to decide what your narrative is?

I demand you take back your truth. Stand with me, and reject the lie. If you don’t own your story, they will tell it however THEY see fit. So speak. Speak now, speak in front of friends, in front of family, in front of enemies. Speak alone. Even if the room goes quiet. Hell, especially then.

Love Always,

Your Comrade,