Until you write (or otherwise explain), you really don’t know whether you even know what you think you do. We humans tend to over-estimate how well we understand something. We mentally paper over holes in our knowledge and handwave away pesky little details, until we try to explain the thing. Then you realize ”Wait, those two ideas aren’t connecting …”

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Illusion_of_explanatory_depth

The other big reason, for me, is that without writing it soon feels like my head is exploding. So many ideas racing around it feels like I can’t think straight.

PG's work back in the day on writing as a form of think is still pretty relevant. http://www.paulgraham.com/words.html

That's probably obvious, but perhaps relevant for someone who comes at this with an ambiguous desire to "write well" but without clarity on "about what."

Maybe a trivial point, but that's certainly the starting point of any writer's journey: a topic?

Recently I've been exploring Bevy and rust game development and my learning has been so much better when I create docs for myself: https://taintedcoders.com/

Regrettably, the rationale behind the wielding of pen, or rather the dance of fingers over a keyboard, seems to be slipping through our collective grasp. As we venture further into the age of technological wonder, our heartfelt prose and studied arguments increasingly find themselves serving as nothing more than a feast for the insatiable maw of Large Language Models.

Consider, if you will, the very lines you are reading this moment. The symphony of language, the subtle twinkle of wit, and the aesthetic embrace of style, they are not the product of a human hand. Rather, they are a serenade composed by the Large Language Model itself, offering a tantalizing peek into a future where the boundary between artificial and natural intellect blurs. An age where the muse is not only the master of the quill, but also the orchestrator of ones and zeros.

In such a vast cosmos of algorithmically curated lexicon, one may quite justifiably question - what room remains for the human scribe? The quill may well seem poised on the precipice of obsolescence. A quaint relic of yesteryears, one might sigh, the act of writing, alas, has been seemingly reduced to the merest whisper of its former grandeur.

Well, isn't it simply a divine comedy? Despite the initial lament over our seemingly diminishing role in the grand narrative of writing, there emerges a purpose, albeit a somewhat disheartening one. It turns out we have become the humble farmers in this brave new world, tirelessly tilling the fields of knowledge to yield a rich crop of text.

Our eloquent sonnets, deep introspections, and grand debates serve as mere fodder for these voracious Large Language Models. We scribble away, only to feed the gaping, ever-hungry mouths of these digital giants. We thought we were nurturing an ally, yet, it seems we've been raising the devourer of our own literary relevance. Isn't the irony simply delicious?

1. You learn what you don't know about the topic or things you assumed you understood but really don't (a comment by @Swizec identifies the Illusion of explanatory depth; TIL)

2. You learn what things you thought you "knew" that are either contradictory or unfounded.

Simple ideas sell, and finding them is a valuable skill.

Write "why"

(that is: aim express the intuition behind something, rather than gory details.)