There’s an old story, likely apocryphal, about a train engine that wouldn’t start. The owner had already burned through several mechanics, each of whom poked, prodded, and replaced parts for hours on end, hoping to revive the silent machine. Yet, despite all their best efforts, nothing worked. With anxiety rising—along with mounting repair bills—the owner finally called in a veteran specialist, a man whose rates were steep but whose reputation for solving the unsolvable was unparalleled.
The old expert arrived with little fanfare, his tools neatly arranged in a well-worn bag. He spent a few minutes walking around the engine, glancing at the bolts, touching the pipes, sometimes leaning in close as though listening for a heartbeat that no one else could hear. Then, he pulled out a small hammer. The onlookers watched in puzzled silence as he paused for just a moment, then delivered a single, precise tap on a seemingly unremarkable spot. To everyone’s astonishment, the engine rumbled to life, gears clicking and pistons chugging with renewed vigor.
A few days later, the owner found himself staring at an invoice that seemed disproportionately high. “You’re charging me this much,” he wrote back in disbelief, “just to hit something with a hammer?”
The old man replied with a simple message: “You’re not paying for the hammer strike. You’re paying for knowing where to hit.”
I think about that story often, especially when people ask why I write the way I do: Why do I favor analysis over immediacy? Why do I speak in concepts and frameworks instead of naming names or igniting strong emotions? Why does my writing sometimes feel impersonal, even when it stems from deeply held convictions?
The hammer is the easy part, so to speak—the physical act of writing down words and sharing them. What often goes unseen is the distance I write from: a careful, philosophical remove that is neither lack of passion nor evasion of emotion. Rather, it’s the product of time, study, and the often-lonely labor of figuring out where that one crucial tap should land.
Recommended Listening:
The Craft of Clarity
When Emotion Becomes a Shortcut
Writing with emotional immediacy is easy in one sense. Almost all of us know how to express excitement, anger, sadness, or joy in our day-to-day conversations and social media posts. It’s what we do when something wonderful or tragic happens: we pour our hearts out, raw and unfiltered. For some writers, this rawness forges a strong bond with their readers. Shared emotions can create solidarity—like-minded individuals rally around your words, feeling validated and less alone.
Yet emotion, if relied upon too heavily, can sometimes overshadow the actual message. When people connect primarily because they share the same emotional wave, they might not delve deeper into the underlying logic or principles. They agree or disagree based on a gut reaction. And while that can be powerful, it’s also limiting. Emotional arguments tend to resonate best with those who already empathize, who already want to feel what you feel. Anyone outside that emotional echo chamber may feel alienated or, worse, manipulated.
I have nothing against emotional writing as a form of expression. It can motivate, it can cathartically release tension, and sometimes exactly what’s needed to spark action. But for the kinds of topics I tackle—ideas that often require stepping back, questioning assumptions, and surveying multiple angles—I find that emotion can become a shortcut. It can sidestep the hard work of building a well-reasoned framework that even skeptics can engage with.
Heat vs. Precision
Clarity, in my experience, rarely comes from the heat of the moment. It’s forged through introspection, meticulous reading, and the willingness to confront one’s own biases. Think of it like forging metal: intense heat is necessary to soften the material, but it’s the practiced, precise strikes of the hammer that truly shape it into something enduring. If I let my writing be driven solely by the heat of my feelings, I might end up warping the argument—or leaving it half-formed.
When I write, I’m not aiming to be heard so much as to be understood. These two are not the same. You can be heard just by shouting; people will register the noise. But understanding takes more effort—both on my end, to craft a clear argument, and on the reader’s end, to parse and reflect upon it.
The Philosophy of Neutral Ground
Why Neutrality Matters
Some might say, “Why not just tell us where you stand? Why keep a distance? Isn’t that fence-sitting?” I see it differently. Writing from a position of philosophical neutrality is not the same as refusing to take a stance. It’s about presenting a topic in such a way that people from a range of perspectives can walk away with something of value—a stepping stone for their own thoughts rather than a neatly tied bow that demands acceptance.
When an article openly wears its bias on its sleeve, it sends a subtle (or sometimes overt) message: “These are the good guys, and these are the bad guys. Agree with me if you want to be on the right side.” For readers who already share that view, this is comforting—like an affirmation that they’re on the correct team. For everyone else, though, the walls may go up immediately. They feel attacked, or they feel dismissed. At that point, dialogue often disintegrates into mutual defensiveness.
By contrast, approaching a subject with neutral, analytical composure can give readers the psychological space to reflect without feeling forced into agreement or cornered into defense. Neutrality is a form of hospitality: you’re welcoming guests (readers) from all sorts of vantage points, giving them a seat at the table, and saying, “Let’s consider these ideas together.” It’s an invitation, not a monologue.
Opinion vs. Presentation
It would be a mistake to assume I hold no opinions. I do—strong ones, in fact. Over the years, I’ve revised them multiple times as I encounter new experiences, new evidence, and new reflections. But when I write, especially on potentially incendiary topics, I often tuck these opinions behind a veil of structured reasoning. Not to hide them, but to ensure they don’t overshadow the question at hand.
In many online and offline spaces, the loudest voices get the most attention. These voices sometimes push polemics, moral crusades, or rigid ideological lines. But I’m not here to “win” an argument. My goal is to create the conditions under which real, personal arguments can begin—arguments that readers have with themselves or with their communities, shaped by a deeper, more thoughtful engagement than surface-level shouting matches.
Philosophy as an Invitation
The Power of Questions
I sometimes think, with some humor, that if philosophy had a battle cry, it would be “What do you mean by that?!?!?!” A large part of philosophical inquiry revolves around clarifying terms, challenging assumptions, and testing logical consistency. It’s a process of slowly unveiling the layers of a concept until you either arrive at a sturdy foundation or discover a fissure that demands rethinking.
When I write from a philosophical remove, I’m essentially inviting the reader into that process. I’m not just giving them answers; I’m also giving them the questions I’ve wrestled with. Why do we assume something is inherently true? Under what conditions might it be false? Is there an angle we haven’t considered? These aren’t rhetorical flourishes—they are genuine prompts, meant to engage the reader’s mind rather than override their judgment with emotional force.
Respecting the Reader’s Agency
Respect, to me, is a key component of philosophical writing. If I barrage someone with my emotional stance, I might force them to react based on their own emotional triggers—either they resonate with me and cheer me on, or they recoil and dig in their heels. Neither response necessarily leads to reflection; it can simply amplify existing biases.
By contrast, if I lay out a structure—introduce a concept, clarify its context, examine its implications—I’m showing respect for the reader’s agency. I’m saying, “You’re capable of thinking through this yourself. Here’s a framework, but the ultimate conclusion is yours to draw.” This approach can feel detached, even clinical, but beneath that detachment is a belief in the reader’s intellect and emotional maturity.
The Perception of Coldness
Why Detachment Can Feel Jarring
Writing from a distance can strike some readers as cold. They might wonder, “Doesn’t the writer care about these issues? Where’s the outrage? Where’s the personal investment?” It’s a fair question, especially in a cultural moment where authenticity is often associated with the rawness of one’s emotional display.
Yet, authenticity can manifest in different ways. For me, it shows up in the structure I build around an idea, in the rigor I apply to the sources I consult, and in the consistency I try to maintain between my personal values and my written words. It’s not about suppressing emotion; it’s about harnessing it in service of clarity. A calm exterior does not equate to apathy—it can simply reflect a desire to create a space for reasoned thought.
Holding Opinions (Quietly)
Behind every “neutral” paragraph I write, there’s often a series of internal debates I’ve had. I test my own convictions, questioning where they came from and whether they hold up under scrutiny. It’s like the old mechanic who spent decades learning how a locomotive works, so that when the time comes, he can diagnose the problem with a single glance.
I do have stances—sometimes strongly held. But I’ve learned through trial and error that revealing them prematurely can cause certain readers to tune out or, ironically, to believe I’m pushing an agenda. If my real objective is to encourage open-minded exploration, I need to be mindful of how quickly I tip my hand. I’d rather guide people to a vantage point where they can see the terrain clearly and draw their own map, instead of just giving them mine.
The Price of the Hammer
Process vs. Performance
That old expert who fixed the train engine wasn’t paid for the theatrical act of swinging a hammer; he was paid for all the labor, knowledge, and insight that allowed him to know where to swing. In writing, I’ve come to realize, the real work is similarly frontloaded. It’s in the reading, the re-reading, the nights spent scribbling half-formed thoughts, the hours spent revisiting an argument you think you’ve already settled, only to discover a hidden flaw that sends you back to the drawing board.
By the time a piece goes out into the world, the polished result might look simple—sometimes deceptively so. It might even read as “distant” or too reserved. But, like an iceberg, most of its mass sits below the surface, shaped by years of curiosity, trial, and error.
Respectful Restraint
Restraint is sometimes mistaken for cowardice. A writer who doesn’t loudly proclaim their stance can be accused of sitting on the fence, avoiding controversy, or trying to please everyone. While I can’t speak for all writers, my restraint isn’t about people-pleasing. It’s about focusing on the clarity of the idea itself rather than using emotional theatrics to drive it home.
Over the years, I’ve found that readers who crave quick emotional hits might find my work underwhelming at first. But those who stay often appreciate the space I leave for their own interpretations. Some of my most rewarding feedback has come from individuals who initially disagreed with me—or didn’t quite see the point—and then returned later to say, “I’ve been thinking about this, and it led me down a path of reading and reflection I never expected.” To me, that’s worth far more than a fleeting surge of emotive applause.
Building a Fairer, More Considered Perspective
Avoiding the Pitfall of Obfuscation
One of my explicit goals in writing from a philosophical distance is to remove obfuscation around a concept. Especially in today’s world, where headlines are designed to provoke outrage or elation, the actual substance of an argument can get buried under layers of sensationalism. We see this pattern in political discourse, social media, and even some academic debates. People rally behind their team, throwing around buzzwords, but rarely pause to parse the underlying assumptions.
When I strip down a topic to its conceptual framework—examining premises, potential counterarguments, historical context—I’m attempting to unravel those tangles. It might not be the most thrilling read for someone who wants immediate emotional gratification, but it can be eye-opening for a reader who says, “I’ve never thought about it like that.” And that moment of fresh perspective is often all I’m aiming for.
Deep-Rooted Rigor
Logical and structural rigor isn’t just a stylistic choice; it’s a sign of respect for you – the reader. It says, “I’m not going to expect you to agree with me based on my emotional appeals alone. I’m going to do the work of crafting a logically coherent argument, referencing great thinkers who have wrestled with these questions before, and making sure the reasoning can stand on its own two feet.”
From ancient philosophers like Socrates—who questioned assumptions with relentless “why” and “how” inquiries—to modern thinkers who deconstruct power structures and systemic biases, there’s a wealth of intellectual scaffolding available. Tapping into that tradition underscores the point that no idea arises in a vacuum. We stand on the shoulders of countless minds that have probed these mysteries long before us. By situating my arguments within that lineage, I’m acknowledging that my thinking is part of an ongoing dialogue, not a final word spoken from on high.
Inviting the Reader to Think Beyond
Beyond Empathy-Driven Resonance
I’ve mentioned that it’s easy to write with emotion, but that it only resonates with people who share a similar response. When we rely on shared feelings—anger, pity, triumph—we often create a sense of camaraderie with those who already see the world similarly. This is powerful, but it doesn’t necessarily bridge gaps between people with different experiences or perspectives, and the internet has enough echo chambers already; it doesn’t need me building my own.
A more logical, philosophical approach can offer a bridge. It challenges readers to step outside their emotional comfort zones and consider perspectives they might have otherwise dismissed. It’s not foolproof, of course. Some people will always bristle at ideas that question their worldview. But for those who are curious—even a little—this approach can be transformative. It can show them a world beyond what they’ve been exposed to, planting seeds of thought that might grow over time.
Leaving Space for Personal Reflection
I firmly believe that transformative thinking happens when the reader does some of the heavy lifting. If my writing provides all the answers in a neatly wrapped package, readers might walk away nodding but not really engaging. If, however, I pose questions, highlight contradictions, and gently peel back the layers, then the reader is invited to participate. They must do some mental work to fill in the gaps, reconcile ideas, and derive meaning.
This, in turn, nurtures a sense of ownership. Any conclusion they arrive at isn’t just “Dom’s viewpoint” they’ve adopted; it’s their own perspective, arrived at through thoughtful consideration. That sense of personal agency can be far more lasting and meaningful than a momentary rush of shared emotion.
Knowing Where to Strike
Like the old mechanic with his small hammer, the part of writing the world sees is just the tip of the iceberg. The single, precise strike of each finished article is made possible by the hidden toil of learning, reading, questioning, and reconsidering. It might come across as reserved or detached—especially in an age that prizes dramatic flair—but in my view, it carries a quiet power.
I don’t write from a distance because I lack passion or conviction. I write this way because I trust that reasoned, structured arguments can spark genuine introspection. I write this way because I respect readers enough to let them forge their own emotional connections once they understand the conceptual terrain. And I write this way because I believe the topics that truly matter—like control, rage, injustice, morality—deserve something more than a quick emotional surge; they deserve a bedrock of thoughtful exploration.
If my tone sometimes seems cold, it’s only because I want you to feel free to step closer on your own terms. If the emotional tenor of my work is subdued, it’s because I’d rather lend you the conceptual tools to build your own reactions, rather than hand you mine. My sense of fulfillment comes not from telling you how to feel, but from knowing I’ve placed a well-aimed tap on a spot that might open a door in your mind.
I’m not swinging wildly, trying to shatter the engine with force. I’m tapping carefully, trusting that a well-chosen spot can restore the hum of thought, the whir of curiosity. Knowing where to strike—knowing how to present ideas so they can breathe—is what moves us beyond emotional resonance into genuine understanding.
I don’t write from a distance because I lack conviction. I write this way because it grants you the space to explore your own stance. If something here resonates—or grates, or puzzles—good. That spark is the sound of the engine coming back to life.
So, there you have it—a personal post, and an invitation to look behind my own mask. Read between the lines of each article, and consider your own stance. My perspective is usually most evident by the simple fact that I chose to write it at all.
I’ll leave you with a personal motto, shamelessly borrowed from Kingdom of Heaven:
“What kind of man is one who does not make the world better?”These essays are my answer to that question—my small contribution beyond personal interaction.
~Dom
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