There’s a particular flicker I pay attention to now: a small, insistent question that arrives out of nowhere — the kind that makes you pick at an idea like a loose thread on a sweater. It could be about a movie line, a smell, a stray headline, or why a neighbour always hangs the same plant by their window. Those tiny curiosities are where I start. They’re not dramatic; they’re patient. Over time I’ve learned to turn them into essays that last longer than the moment of interest. Here’s how I do it, in case you want to try the same sort of translation work between a twitch of curiosity and a piece of writing that can keep company with readers.
Notice the quiet questions
First, I cultivate attention. That sounds lofty but it’s just small routines: keeping a pocket notebook or the Notes app open, writing down a sentence when something tugs at me, and resisting the urge to explain it away immediately. A curiosity is usually vague at first — “Why do I remember that song?” or “What makes this chair feel honest?” — and the act of recording preserves its shape before I inadvertently sharpen it into something less interesting.
I never trust the first tidy explanation. The most useful stage is the wobble, the part where the question is still awkward and unformed. Let it sit. Often the essay waits to be born until that wobble has breathed enough to reveal edges I didn’t expect.
Ask three different kinds of questions
When I return to a stray note, I interrogate it from three angles. This simple framework helps expand a curiosity into a field of inquiry:
- Personal: How does this relate to my own experience or memory? This is where essay voice lives — your small admission or anecdote makes the reader feel invited.
- Cultural: What wider patterns does this touch? Are there similar examples in film, design, or social behaviour? This is where context and research come in.
- Conceptual: Is there an abstract idea or metaphor hiding here? Can the curiosity illuminate something about presence, nostalgia, value, or attention?
Each question leads me to a different type of material. The personal question yields texture and warmth; the cultural one points toward references and sources I might read; the conceptual question suggests the essay’s spine — its claim or imaginative move.
Collect small evidence
I don’t set out to be exhaustive. Instead I gather small pieces: a line from a novel, a screenshot, a short interview, a photograph, or a quick survey of opinions on Twitter. These are the artifacts that lend an essay its credibility and spice. For example, when I was thinking about why certain public benches feel more inviting, I photographed many benches, noted materials and placement, and read a couple of design essays. I also asked friends which benches they loved and why. None of it was monumental research, but together the fragments made a case.
Tools I reach for: a smartphone camera, a few library books or JSTOR articles for quick context, and the odd podcast episode. Brands like Evernote or Obsidian can help keep scraps organised if you like a digital system. The point is to be curious in a disciplined way — collect, but don’t hoard.
Play with form and focus
A curiosity can become many kinds of essays. Sometimes it wants to be a narrative (a story that leads the reader through a discovery). Sometimes it’s an exploratory piece (thinking aloud, asking questions). Sometimes it’s a brief cultural sketch that connects a micro-observation to a larger mood. Early on I try different forms by writing three first paragraphs in different tones. One might start with memory, another with an evocative description, a third with a direct question. Whichever paragraph sticks is a clue to the essay’s tone.
Also be willing to change the focus. If you begin with “Why do people queue politely in some places?” you might find the essay prefers to be about patience, or about how architecture cues behaviour, or about rituals of civility. Follow the version that feels alive.
Outline the move — not the whole piece
I make a short outline, but it’s less a rigid roadmap than a set of moves I want the essay to perform. A typical outline is three acts:
- Set the question in a personal scene or observation.
- Introduce evidence and broader context that complicates or enlarges the question.
- Make a small claim or open a new way of looking at the original curiosity — often through a metaphor or a cultural reference.
Here’s a tiny table I sometimes draft to see the essay’s architecture at a glance:
| Curiosity | Prompt | Possible moves |
|---|---|---|
| Why do we say "sorry" so often? | Start with a train ride memory | Personal anecdote → social linguistics → empathy as etiquette |
| Why do some cities feel calmer? | Describe a street with planting | Observe design → interview urbanist → generalize about sensory attention |
Write the first draft as conversation
I like to imagine I’m telling the idea to a curious friend over tea. That keeps the voice candid and keeps exposition from becoming lecturing. I write quickly at this stage, letting associations appear, and I don’t stop to perfect sentences. The aim is to be generous with the reader: explain enough to follow, but leave room for the essay to surprise.
When the piece needs authority, I fold in a brief reference or quote. I’m fond of a short citation — perhaps a line from Virginia Woolf, a design theorist, or a relevant news report — used sparingly to deepen rather than dominate the essay.
Revise for shape and generosity
Revision is the place where curiosity either becomes an essay or a soggy anecdote. I look for two things: clarity of the central movement (does the essay have a shape?) and generosity to the reader (is it readable, hospitable, curious?). I cut what repeats. I add a clarifying sentence where the logic stumbles. I may trim an anecdote that’s entertaining but irrelevant.
One trick: read the piece aloud. If a paragraph feels dense, break it. If a sentence is trying too hard to be clever, tame it. The best essays keep their intelligence visible but not performative.
Let the ending be a doorway, not a stop
Instead of polishing a neat conclusion, I prefer an ending that opens another window — a question, a small image, a suggestion for looking again. Essays that linger are usually those that leave a trace, an invitation to think further. They don’t try to answer everything; they offer a companionable path forward.
Once, a tiny curiosity about why my neighbour painted only half a fence led to an essay about ownership, threshold rituals and privacy. I never resolved the neighbour’s logic, and that’s fine. The piece lasted because it stayed curious rather than conclusive.
If you want to practice: keep a list of curiosities for a month, choose one each weekend, and move through these small stages — notice, ask, collect, play, outline, draft, revise. You’ll be surprised how many small questions can grow into essays that keep company with readers long after the initial twitch of interest.
