If you’ve taken one of my personal essay classes, you’ve probably heard me say this more than once: Use your writing to discover something you didn’t know when you started. That’s not just teacher talk. It’s how the best essays—especially the personal kind—find their legs.

Here’s the thing. When you sit down with the intention of proving a point, you’ve already hemmed yourself in. You’re writing with an agenda: make the reader believe X, Y, or Z. And sure, that has its place—in revision. But if you come out of the gate knowing exactly where you’re headed, chances are you’ll miss the more interesting side roads entirely.

I’m a firm believer that sometimes you don’t know what your essay’s really about until you loosen your grip on the wheel and let your mind drift a little. That wandering is where the good stuff lives.

Now, I can practically hear someone saying, “Well, that’s fine for people with time to burn. But I’ve got a life, deadlines, dinner to make, a family to wrangle, and not enough hours in the day to go meandering around my own thoughts.”

Believe me, I understand. I use time—or the lack of it—as an excuse all the time, especially when it comes to writing. I’d love to know exactly where I’m headed so I can knock it out and move on to more pressing matters—like a nap, a hot bath, or sneaking a slice of chocolate cake. But here’s the trick: wandering doesn’t take as long as you think. You’re not climbing Everest—you’re just letting your mind roam, trusting the strange little connections, and setting aside that rigid, linear thinking that demands: A + B = C, and now let’s eat the cake.

Speaking of cake, sometimes I think I should’ve just started a food blog. Recipes, kitchen stories, maybe a few cookie disasters. I love to bake—the rhythm of it, the comfort of knowing that if you follow the steps (mostly), you’ll end up with something warm and edible. Baking has an obvious reward system. Writing? Not so much. Sometimes you stir and sift and still end up with a mess. Other times, with enough meandering, you might surprise yourself and bake up something good.

And here we are, supposedly at the end of this essay, and you might be thinking, “Well, she’s gone completely off the rails. Where exactly did this piece go?” Fair point. I’ll probably feel a little sheepish reading that in your eyes. But don’t think I won’t push back. You might even get the famous look—the one I reserve for when someone questions my method. It’s been known to rattle people. You may be the exception.

But here’s what I’ll ask you: What did you just learn about me that you wouldn’t have if I’d stuck to a tidy, thesis-driven essay on discovery in writing?

If I’d done that, you wouldn’t know I duck out of writing to crawl into bed, linger in the tub, or go hunting for cake. You wouldn’t have wandered with me into my kitchen or seen me squinting at you with that death stare. And let’s be honest—you probably wouldn’t still be reading.

So here’s my point: Let your writing wander. Let your mind play. Follow the thread that doesn’t make sense yet. Get lost. You’ll be surprised how often that messy, winding path leads to something that feels whole—and maybe even satisfying.

And after that? Go eat the cake. Or don’t. You might not even want it by then.