Have you noticed how allergic to work modern writers seem to be? They barely finish a paragraph and already post on Instagram: “starting new novel.” For some reason, those posts get encouraging comments like “you got this!” or “can’t wait to read it!”, even though — let’s be honest — they rarely get more than four likes.

The next day, that same “writer” proclaims their characters are suddenly more believable. That they’ve made it to page five. A week later, they’re celebrating fifty pages with a self-congratulatory post: “I’ve never written anything like this.” And you, being too polite, comment a lukewarm “that’s great!” That’s when it hits you — you’ve fallen for it. You’ve joined the club of those who talk about writing instead of actually doing it.

Nostalgia

What happened to writers who locked themselves away with their novels until they were done? The ones who vanished from the face of the Earth without posting a single quote or draft? Today it’s almost impossible not to get distracted. Not just because the world is tailor-made to hijack your attention, but because more and more people get off on pretending.

A few years back, I wrote on social media that I didn’t understand why all these self-proclaimed writers always looked pissed in their profile pictures — dressed like they’re pushing sixty. Is there an official uniform now? A user’s manual for moody poses and “deep thinker” expressions?

We’re surrounded by writers who don’t write.

An era where “writer accounts” multiply, but the novels never arrive. Where there’s more noise than books. Which leads us to the deadly sin of this new archetype, something Stephen King already warned about: they don’t read. They don’t read others. They don’t even read themselves. But they expect to be read. Of course, their bios say they’re writers, editors, screenwriters, astrologers, trauma healers, and freelance content visionaries. Everything but actual laborers of the word.

The Big Why: Anatomy of a Scam