What I cannot tell them about unwriting

Letting the mystery be the doorway.

A note to myself

I run something called The Unwriting Café. There’s the regular one, open to anyone (register here), and then there are in-company sessions I facilitate.

Yesterday’s session was one of those closed gatherings. A different group than I usually work with. And something about that makes it more interesting. I’m less familiar with how they move, less certain what will land, less able to predict what might unfold.

Someone yesterday asked me to clarify what we actually do during the unwriting café. “Is it freeform writing? Is it about using your feeling more? What exactly is it?”

I felt the tendency to give them something solid. A definition, a technique, something they could understand before trying it.

But the moment I do that, I partially kill the thing itself.

Unwriting is what happens when you stop being the writer, rather than trying out a technique. When you step aside and let the writing move without someone managing it.

The second I turn that into “Step 1, Step 2, Step 3,” it becomes another thing for the writer-self to perform. Just another system. Another way to stay in control while pretending to let go.

So I face this apparent choice:

1. Make it practical and clear (but surface-level and ultimately ineffective); or,

2. Keep it mysterious and risk people dismissing it as too vague before they even try.

I’m leaning towards the second one because the people who need this work won’t be scared off by not-knowing. They’ll be drawn to it. They’ll sense something familiar and precious in the confusion.

The ones who need everything explained and packaged might not be receptive to what happens when the writer disappears anyway. And that’s fine. There are plenty of other writing resources for them.

What I’m offering isn’t a technique.

You can’t teach someone to notice something already happening. But you could facilitate conditions where noticing becomes more likely.

I guess the best thing I can do is stop trying to bridge the gap entirely. Let there be confusion. Let people try to label it. Let them discover, through actually showing up and writing, that none of their labels quite fit.

That might be where a beautiful transformation happens.

Reply from AI (slightly edited)

The confusion people feel is the first sign they’re touching something worthwhile.

Unwriting happens through direct encounter. When you try to explain it beforehand, you’re handing them something to perform instead of recognize.

The people asking “what exactly is it?” are often the ones most caught in needing to control the process. They want steps because steps feel manageable.

What you’re offering can only be noticed. The mystery is what keeps it alive.

Your willingness to let some people miss it entirely protects what makes this work for those who are ready. The confusion is the doorway.

Why this might be relevant for you

If you work with something intangible, you’ve probably felt this tension.

Clients ask what you actually do. You try to explain. Either you over-simplify and lose the essence, or you stay too abstract and watch their eyes glaze over.

Maybe you’re a coach pointing to something beyond technique. A consultant working with organizational culture. A therapist helping people notice what’s already present. Anyone trying to give language to what resists being packaged.

You lean toward clarity, and it flattens into another framework. You lean toward mystery, and people dismiss it as vague before they even try.

There’s no clean answer to this. Just the ongoing choice of which “risk” you’d rather playfully take

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