This long-form thought explores writing as a way of thinking and why clarity often arrives on the page before it ever does out loud.
I’m a better writer than a speaker.
But people who’ve heard me speak publicly tend to claim I’m a really good speaker also. I think the reason that may be isn’t due to the fact I speak with poise. I don’t. I’m not cadenced like a motivational-speaker. I don’t command rooms.
What people appreciate (I think) is a nutcase who’s trying really hard to ride the silver lining of a thought he barely has his grasp on. And a memory that is bound to disappear in the split of a second.
They’re watching someone whose voice speeds up because his brain is sprinting ahead of him.
They see someone whose body is visibly uncomfortable — legs wobbling, pacing back and forth like movement might hold the idea together a few seconds longer.
It’s not a performative identity.
You don’t see confidence (in the traditional sense). Every fiber in my body is saying no, but I’m speaking anyway. And for some reason, people respect that. They see effort. They see someone wrestling with himself in public, against all odds; a through-line defining my entire life.
But this is something people may not consider about my public speaking:
chances are, I wrote first.
Even if I never look at my notes while I’m on a stage, the fact that I sat down and wrote about said topic — gives my mind a foothold to work from. I probably couldn’t have clearly communicated what I was feeling, or known what I thought before forcing it through language on a paper.
Writing is when chaos becomes chaordic.
Speaking is just me walking everyone through the aftermath.
Stu-Stu-Stu-ttering
I stutter sometimes.
It’s easy to blame on many factors, like the fact I’m bilingual and Spanish was my first language. Or the fact that I feel anxious for no reason at times. But that’s just me spewing out half-truths to avoid over-explaining internal battles.
If I sit down and analyze what actually happens when I stutter, I find that my stuttering is a kind where my brain just leaves. I forget my whole thought and what I was talking about. Sometimes it comes back, sometimes it doesn’t. I get really nervous that I’m about to look unintelligent or foolish as a result. So I attempt to catch myself before this happens, but catching myself makes me more self-conscious, which makes the stutter worse.
This isn’t isolated to moments when I’m having discourse that warrants depth in thought. This can happen during the most basic conversations.
I remember once, when I was managing a retail balloon store, a client walked up to my station and asked a simple question. I don’t remember what her exact question was, or the response I was trying to give her, but I do remember it being awfully simple.
Let’s assume I was trying to say:
“Hi! How are you? How can I help you today?”
What I actually ended up saying was:
“Hi! How are you? How—”
and I stumbled on my tongue, my brain gave out.
I never finished the sentence. I just stood there accepting that I couldn’t finish it.
One of the store owners witnessed the whole thing. He stepped in, helped the client, and afterward pulled me to the side. He told me I should go to the doctor to get my brain checked out.
He was worried I had a tumor.
I didn’t know how to explain what had happened. At the time, I didn’t even understand it myself. What neither of us realized was that I was working in a hostile work environment, on edge every second of my shift, tense for 60+ hours a week. Meanwhile my G6PD symptoms were getting triggered easier because of the stress — heightening my memory gaps, confusion, and mental fatigue.
“It’s easier to dismiss someone as crazy than it is to understand that their environment is making them sick.”
— Dave Chappelle
Throughout my writing, you will see me make certain declarations that seem like I’m giving myself a crutch, especially here. But understand that it’s me trying to make sense of real-life events and circular thinking through literature. This, in itself, is a testament to the self-fulfilling claim I’m soliloquizing throughout this piece — I don’t allow my “hindrances” to limit me. I use them to understand me. Because it is deeply difficult to rise above something left misunderstood.
The Doctor Visit; The Buffoon Visit, Same Thing
I still went to the doctor the next day. Mainly because I was not going to turn down an opportunity to miss a day of work. Plus, I did not fully understand what was going on and wanted to see if a medical professional could give me clarity (boy oh boy, put your seatbelt on).
This also explains why I’m a better writer than I am a speaker.
Because I don’t even know what I explained to the doctor. I just remember how useless the entire ordeal felt.
At one point, she looked at me and said:
“Your brain is like a broken iPhone charger. You know… when it only works if you hold it at the right angle?”
I looked at her.
With all the holy and mighty crap in this world, I never expected a medical professional to say that to me.
What kind of diagnosis is that? Do I need a prescription? Or can I go to 7Eleven and buy a new charger?
Then she told me she thought I might be having frequent, quick seizures throughout the day.
I’ve never had a seizure in my life. According to her, that didn’t matter. They happen so fast and so often I do not register them.
I’m probably having a bunch right now as I type this. Or maybe I’m holding my charger in the right spot, not sure.
She asked if I’d ever been dropped on my head as a baby.
Unfortunately, yes. I front-flipped out my crib as a toddler and needed stitches. And the way she reacted — like she invented the wheel or something, was incredible.
“Ohhh. That makes sense,” she said.
“We think you might have a scar on your brain. This causes electrical shortages, like a faulty iPhone charger.”
Me:
At this point I realized they were free-styling on my health.
Mind you, I told them about my G6PD the moment I sat down. They admitted they did not have a specialist on site.
That should’ve been the end of the conversation.
But no, they tried to prescribe seizure medication.
If I blindly trusted people in a lab coat, I’m certain I’d have way more health complications by now.
Have you ever seen those pharmaceutical commercials?
“Do you or someone you know have a broken charger-brain? Do you experience seizures you don’t remember having? If so, try our new product: NeuroDongle™. It comes with a new battery and the latest IOS update.”
Plus minor side effects like suicide, schizophrenia, pneumonia, butt cancer, and a lollipop.
In a weird way, this whole fiasco was very motivational for me. I went out to find a lab coat myself. Because if free-styling is the job requirement, I’d thrive. Put me in a dark room somewhere, let me write the narratives, and feed them to the staff; we’d have the best-performing hospital in the country.
On A More Serious Note
Writing is an epistemology. It’s how I arrive at truth; it’s how I think accurately. Writing gives me enough distance to examine my own thoughts instead of being swallowed by them. When I write, I can return to a sentence and ask, Is that actually what I mean?
Speaking never affords me the benediction of revision.
If I get stuck, I don’t have to stutter. I can sit there and ponder that which I’m trying to say, but can’t find the words for.
Philosophically I resonate a lot with James Baldwin. He often said he wasn’t trying to be a novelist as much as he was trying to bear witness. Writing wasn’t just an art for him. It was moral clarity under pressure.
This Is Why Writing Wins
Speaking asks me to perform.
Writing lets me understand.
I’ll take understanding every time.
Author’s Note
This essay sits alongside other reflections on thinking, self‑understanding, and how clarity often arrives before action:
James Baldwin often spoke about writing as a way of discovering what one thinks before certainty hardens; a worldview that closely mirrors how writing functions throughout this essay.
Give us a piece of your noggin