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Tagged with Michael Nielsen

Michael Nielsen on writing as an antidote to the illusion of understanding

Michael Nielsen on twitter:

One function of good notetaking is that it forces you to confront your own ignorance of things you thought you understood.

And also:

To convey the experience, I once said hyperbolically to a friend: “I believe I could barely think before I began to write seriously”. As the words hung in the air, I had quite a shock, as I realized I really believed it. Taking writing seriously made me a different person.

Michael expands and quotes David Chapman’s The illusion of understanding:

Unless you are a kitchen tool engineer, there’s no reason to actually understand how a can opener works. What everyone else needs is to know (1) what it is for and (2) how to use it. So most of the time “understanding” is really “comfort with.” It means you know how to interact with it well enough to get by, and you are reassured that it is not going to explode without warning. This comfort is provided mainly by familiarity, not understanding. Having used a can opener many times convinces you that you understand it, because you can almost always make one work, and you almost never cut yourself. Tellingly, Rozenblit and Keil found that their subjects did not overestimate their “how-to” knowledge, only their “how-it-works” knowledge.

Visakan Veerasamy adds:

“Everything is vague to a degree you do not realize till you have tried to make it precise, and everything precise is so remote from everything that we normally think, that you cannot for a moment suppose that is what we really mean when we say what we think.”
— Bertrand Russell in The Philosophy of Logical Atomism

Michael Nielsen on how hard it is to write well

Michael Nielsen on twitter:

I began serious writing in 2007, & was shocked by how difficult it was, & how transformative.

To convey the experience, I once said hyperbolically to a friend: “I believe I could barely think before I began to write seriously”. As the words hung in the air, I had quite a shock, as I realized I really believed it. Taking writing seriously made me a different person.

Early on, I asked a well-known science writer how many drafts he went through. He sighed, looked doleful, and replied “For the hard parts, sometimes 50 to 100”. I commiserated, but was secretly relieved: no, my process wasn’t irredeemably broken.

He then adds:

I‘d written a lot before then (a book, 50+ research papers, & theses). But in 2007 or 2008 I began to write pieces that were transformative. Mostly because I cared so much that I was willing to rewrite and rewrite, gradually sharpening the ideas.

There is an incredible comment by Grothendieck — perhaps the most creative mathematician of the last century — on what it is to be alone, to develop an idea from first principles that transcends community.

Michael links to his own post on Hacker News at the occasion of Grothendieck’s death:

Grothendieck’s comments on creativity have been very important in my life, especially the following quote (in translation from the French):

“To state it in slightly different terms: in those critical years [roughly from age 17 to 20] I learned how to be alone.

“This formulation doesn’t really capture my meaning. I didn’t, in any literal sense learn to be alone, for the simple reason that this knowledge had never been unlearned during my childhood. It is a basic capacity in all of us from the day of our birth. However these 3 years of work in isolation, when I was thrown onto my own resources, following guidelines which I myself had spontaneously invented, instilled in me a strong degree of confidence, unassuming yet enduring, in my ability to do mathematics, which owes nothing to any consensus or to the fashions which pass as law…

“By this I mean to say: to reach out in my own way to the things I wished to learn, rather than relying on the notions of the consensus, overt or tacit, coming from a more or less extended clan of which I found myself a member, or which for any other reason laid claim to be taken as an authority. This silent consensus had informed me, both at the lyé and at the university, that one shouldn’t bother worrying about what was really meant when using a term like “volume”, which was “obviously self-evident”, “generally known”, “unproblematic”, etc. I’d gone over their heads, almost as a matter of course, even as Lesbesgue himself had, several decades before, gone over their heads. It is in this gesture of “going beyond”, to be something in oneself rather than the pawn of a consensus, the refusal to stay within a rigid circle that others have drawn around one — it is in this solitary act that one finds true creativity. All others things follow as a matter of course.”

Very late in his life, Grothendieck asked for people to cease re-publishing his work, even brief excerpts (link). So I have mixed feelings about quoting the above. But I do so in the hope that it can help others as it has helped me.

Back to Michael on twitter:

For me, serious writing helped me understand & to some extent implement what Grothendieck was saying. An early example was The Future of Science. That looks simple and easy to read, but took a month of fulltime work to write, and much longer to distill the ideas.

It looks much easier to write than, say, The geometry of quantum computation. But the latter involved less thinking through fundamentals from first principles; it was more tied to conventional social mores, and so was in some sense much easier to write.

I realize that, ironically, this isn’t a terribly good description. At its core is a way of using writing to explore some very fundamental set of questions, approaching them as if from scratch, & pushing through to a novel clarity & simplicity. It’s excruciating & transformative.

Michael later added:

There were definite transitions in seriousness at 21 and 33. But I suspect that in ten years I’ll think that in 2020 I hadn’t yet started really seriously writing!

When I study good writers it is obvious almost immediately that they have hundreds or thousands of practices that would greatly improve my writing.

And that’s not counting all the less obvious practices!

A random example, which I was looking at not 10 minutes ago: Annie Lennox’s striking use of the biblical reference “song of songs” in “Love Song for a Vampire”. This is far beyond my writing practice at present!

(Link to the lyrics)

Come into these arms again
And lay your body down
The rhythm of this trembling heart
Is beating like a drum

It beats for you - It bleeds for you
It knows not how it sounds
For it is the drum of drums
It is the song of songs…

Once I had the rarest rose
That ever deigned to bloom
Cruel winter chilled the bud
And stole my flower too soon


I once asked a well known writer how many drafts he went through. He sighed & said “for the really difficult bits, sometimes 50 to 100”. I can’t say how much that helped me — I realized I wasn’t terrible at writing, just that much apparently effortless writing was very hard work

I have probably hit 50 a few times, though probably not 100.

I deleted one chapter and started from scratch I believe 6 times (7 in total). Each overall draft was revised end-to-end maybe 5-10 times. So maybe ~50-60ish revisions for that chapter.

(It’s the one I had recently finished when I asked the question.)

Michael Nielsen on audience, fears while writing, and feedback

Michael Nielsen on twitter:

I’ve felt those things! Rather sharply at times — it’s so much harder to write without a good audience! Of course, sometimes writers create an audience, & that can be a beautiful creative act. I love this quote from Ted Carpenter:

“Artists don’t address themselves to audiences; they create audiences. That artist talks to himself out loud. If what he has to say is significant, others hear and are affected.”
Edmund Carpenter, in his foreword to They Became What They Beheld

via @vihartvihart’s They Became What They Beheld: Medium, Message, Youtubery

On risk: good writing is often risky. It’s inherently transformative: you think things through so deeply you create a unique point of view. That’s scary. What if people are offended? Or think you’re stupid? Or wrong? But it’s worth the price, because in return you get personal growth

I don’t say these things lightly. In my archives I have multi-thousand word critiques (mostly email) from people I admire greatly… telling me how disappointed they were in something or another I wrote. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that hurts. But worth it, IMO.