The Advice Loop

Proof that self-awareness is not the same as self-discipline

You know what’s easy? Giving advice.

All you need is a little confidence and the ability to say things like you mean them. That’s it. That’s the whole trick. No wonder con men do so well, they don’t even have to be right, they just have to sound sure.

Confidence is magnetic. It’s comforting. It makes people listen, even if you’re two steps from disaster and making it up as you go. Which is probably why, on any given day, I can give out some pretty solid advice. Writing advice. Life advice. Even relationship advice, if I’m feeling bold and well-caffeinated.

I had a friend once who was the undisputed king of pulling stuff out of his ass. Always with authority. Always with conviction. And I bought it, a lot, until I finally realized he was full of something else entirely. After that? My motto became trust but verify. As it should be.

Because here’s the thing, confidence only works if the person on the receiving end hasn’t figured out you’re unreliable. Once that’s gone, so is the magic.

Now, I like to think the advice I give is solid, especially when it comes to writing. I don’t bluff. I’m not conning anyone. I’ve been in the trenches. I’ve stared down the blank page and the bloated middle and the “what even is this ending” crisis. The advice I give is earned.

But you know what’s hard?

Following my own damn advice.

The idea for this post actually hit me after I wrote a piece about villains, how great stories often have great antagonists. I talked about how a strong villain can shape the arc, raise the stakes, give the protagonist something to push against. All true.

But then I realized…I haven’t actually written a story where a full-blown villain shows up early and leans in hard. Not one where the antagonist is driving the story like Darth Vader on day one.

I want to. I even have some half-baked ideas I’ve been playing with. But the truth is, stories come to you how they come to you. Most of mine just haven’t included that kind of villain yet. And that’s okay. But it does make me chuckle a little when I re-read my advice and realize I haven’t done the thing I said was so important. Yet.

That’s the nature of writing. Of life, really. We know what we should do. We give great pep talks to others. But when it’s our turn to apply that same wisdom? Suddenly we’re negotiating with ourselves like a toddler refusing bedtime.

I can tell a new writer not to stress about their first draft. “Get it on the page,” I say. “You can’t fix what you haven’t written.” Sage stuff. And then I’ll spend three hours tweaking the same sentence because it doesn’t feel quite right. Because I know better. Because I forgot, again, that perfection isn’t step one. It’s step twenty-three. On a good day.

I saw a post today talking about not using your thesaurus on the first draft. Again, sound advice, but words matter, and I get stuck on words sometimes. I can’t move forward until I find that right word. I know it’s ridiculous.

I can say “rest is part of the process,” and then guilt myself into writing at midnight like I’m on deadline for The New Yorker. I’ll nod along when someone says, “Done is better than perfect,” and then spend three weeks second-guessing a blog post about corn fungus.

We all do it. The double standard of self-direction. The kindness we extend to others that somehow bounces off our own skulls like a poorly thrown dodgeball.

Why Is It So Hard?

Maybe because giving advice feels like control. It’s action. It’s agency. You’re helping someone else get unstuck, and that feels useful.

Following your own advice requires trust, surrender, patience. Gross.

It means believing your future self will be grateful for the hard thing you’re doing now. And my future self is kind of a diva. So, it’s no surprise I procrastinate. That I scroll. That I rewrite. That I tell myself I’ll write more tomorrow.

The writing advice I give is usually solid. I just need to hear it like I’m someone else.

So maybe that’s the trick: when you’re stuck, ask what advice you’d give a friend in your situation. And then pretend you’re just someone who’s lucky enough to know you.

Because even con men know, confidence sells. And sometimes you’ve got to fake it until your own advice finally sticks.

So maybe that’s the lesson.
Advice is easy. Following it takes practice.

And when you catch yourself doing the exact thing you warned someone else not to do…just nod and smile. Maybe even write a blog post about it.