Tag: WritersCo-op.com

Writing the Unthinkable

“Writing the unthinkable” is one of those phrases that sounds dramatic until you sit with it—and then you realize it names something every serious writer eventually confronts. It’s the moment when the mind wants to flinch, when the hand hesitates, when the sentence feels like it crosses some invisible boundary of propriety, privacy, or even self‑protection. And yet, that’s often where the most vital writing lives.

Why the “unthinkable” matters in writing

The unthinkable isn’t necessarily the taboo or the grotesque. It’s anything the writer instinctively avoids:

A memory that still burns
A desire that feels shameful
A fear that feels too revealing
A truth that disrupts the persona we present to the world
A thought that contradicts our values, or seems “wrong,” or feels dangerous to admit
Writers don’t have to act on these things. They don’t have to endorse them. But exploring them on the page is often how we discover what’s actually going on beneath the curated surface of our minds.

The paradox: writing requires honesty, but honesty feels risky

In conversation, we self‑edit constantly. We soften, we dodge, we perform. Writing—real writing—asks for the opposite. It asks for:

Precision instead of politeness
Curiosity instead of avoidance
Courage instead of comfort
That’s why the page can feel like a confessional booth, a laboratory, or a battlefield. It’s a place where the mind can finally say the thing it’s been circling.

The “unthinkable” as a creative engine

When writers allow themselves to explore the unthinkable, several things happen:

The work gains emotional voltage. Readers feel the difference between safe writing and writing that risks something.
The writer discovers new territory. The unthinkable is often where the story actually begins.
The material becomes more human. Everyone has unspoken thoughts; few people articulate them. When a writer does, it resonates.
Think of it as spelunking into the psyche. You don’t go down there because it’s pleasant. You go because that’s where the real stuff is.

The fear behind the unthinkable

Most resistance comes from one of three places:

Fear of judgment (“If anyone knew I thought this…”)
Fear of self‑knowledge (“If I write this, I can’t pretend I don’t know it anymore…”)
Fear of consequences (“What if this changes how I see myself?”)
But writing is private until you choose otherwise. The page is the safest place to confront the unthinkable because it asks nothing of you except honesty.

The craft side: how writers actually do it

Writers who embrace the unthinkable often:

Write fast enough that the censor can’t keep up
Use metaphor or distance to approach difficult material sideways
Let the first draft be messy, raw, and unpublishable
Treat the page as a witness, not a judge
Separate the act of writing from the act of sharing
The unthinkable becomes thinkable when you give yourself permission to explore without consequence.

The deeper truth

The unthinkable is rarely monstrous. More often, it’s simply unspoken. It’s the part of the human experience we’re trained not to articulate. When a writer goes there, they’re not being transgressive—they’re being honest.

And honesty, in writing, is the closest thing we have to magic.

[Content by Copilot. Image stolen by GD too long ago to remember.]

The Platform Lords

“…design stories that feel inevitable rather than arbitrary.”

As writers, we benefit from a clearer understanding of our world.
So, I asked Copilot A.I. “What kind of people today operate beyond the control of nations?”

COPILOT:
A hybrid class has emerged. These are the technologists, capital allocators, data monopolists, algorithmic governors, and attention merchants. They control cloud infrastructure, global communication channels, AI models, data flows, digital identity, and supply chains.

This new class controls the infrastructure of thought, shapes public attention, influences elections, mediates commerce, and sets the terms of digital life. These are the meta‑actors who control the environment in which all other actors operate.

Writers benefit from understanding these “Dominant Actors” in world-building. They can use them to build societies with coherent power dynamics; design factions that feel inevitable rather than arbitrary; and show how knowledge, secrecy, and technology shape their civilization.
It’s a worldbuilding scaffold as strong as Campbell’s monomyth.

Take the phrase “Attention merchants” for example. It includes them all:
Advertisers sell products. Politicians sell narratives and votes. Newscasters sell urgency and worldview. Pundits sell identity and allegiance. Influencers sell lifestyle and parasocial intimacy. Even some educators and activists sell frameworks and moral clarity.
All of them operate in the same economy: the attention economy. And the currency? Your time, your focus, your emotional bandwidth.
It’s a powerful lens for writers, too. You can ask: Who are the attention merchants in my story? What are they selling -and to whom? What tactics do they use: fear, beauty, outrage, charm? What happens when a character refuses to buy?
“Attention merchants” is one of those phrases that slices clean through the noise.

When you see that we’re living under “Platform Lords,” you suddenly have clearer villains, clearer stakes, and clearer systemic pressures. Writers who understand the real power structures of their era write sharper, more resonant stories.

[Image and COPILOT content by Copilot A.I.]