I used to believe that good writing required length. More words meant more depth, more nuance, more credibility. I was wrong.

About three years ago, I started writing what I called "pocket essays"—thoughts that were too long for social media but too short for traditional blog posts. They were messy at first. Bloated. Then I realized something: constraints don't limit thinking. They sharpen it.

Today, I want to talk about micro-essays. What they are, why they matter, and how to write them well.

More Than a Tweet, Less Than a Post

Let's start with definitions, because most people conflate short-form writing into a single bucket.

A tweet is a declaration. It's a moment, a reaction, a link. "Look at this." "This is true." "Remember this."

A blog post is an argument. It makes a case, provides evidence, reaches a conclusion. It might take 2,000 words to get there.

A micro-essay sits in the middle. It's a complete thought that's been distilled to its essence. Usually 500–1,500 words. But the length matters less than the completeness.

A micro-essay has:

• A clear entry point (why you should read this)
• A central insight or observation
• Enough detail to feel substantial
• A conclusion that doesn't try to solve everything

The key difference from a tweet? You can think on the page. The difference from a blog post? You respect the reader's time.

The Paradox of Constraints

This is the part that surprised me. I thought shorter writing would be easier. Write less, take less effort. Wrong again.

Removing words is harder than adding them. There's a reason writers say "easy to write, hard to edit." When you have 5,000 words, you can bury weak ideas under better ones. When you have 800 words, every sentence has to justify its existence.

I've deleted entire paragraphs that were well-written but unnecessary. Paragraphs I was proud of. That hurt, but it made the essay sharper.

The constraint—the 500–1,500 word limit—forces you to make choices:

• Which idea is actually central?
• Which detail matters most?
• What can the reader infer without being told?

These aren't sacrifices. They're clarifications. The constraint doesn't shrink your thinking. It focuses it.

Structure: The Three-Part Move

Most good micro-essays follow a simple structure.

The hook. This is your opening. Not a trick—just something that makes the reader curious. A contradiction. A personal story. A counter-intuitive claim. Something that says, "This won't be what you expect."

Here's an example hook: "The best writing advice I ever got had nothing to do with writing." Now the reader wants to know what you mean.

The insight. This is the meat. You have maybe 400 words here. You're exploring your idea, showing it from different angles, giving examples or evidence. You're thinking on the page. If the hook is a question, this is the exploration.

The landing. This is your conclusion, but not in the traditional essay sense. You're not summarizing what you said or trying to give a definitive answer. You're pointing toward what the reader should do with this idea. Or what question they should sit with. Or what it changes about how they see something.

The landing should feel like a realization, not a summary.

Why We Stop Writing Essays

Here's what I notice: most people either tweet or write long-form. The micro-essay is a neglected middle ground.

Partly it's because the format isn't obvious. Twitter rewards brevity to the point of crypticness. Medium rewards depth and length. There's no obvious venue for something in between.

But there's another reason. Micro-essays are hard. They require a different skill than either short tweets or long essays. You can't hide behind word count, but you can't explain everything either. You need precision, restraint, and trust—trust that your reader will fill in some gaps.

And that's why most people skip them.

Why It Matters

If you have ideas worth sharing, micro-essays are worth learning.

They're easier to write regularly than blog posts. You can have one ready in an hour. No days of research, no 3,000-word commitment.

They're more substantial than tweets. You can actually make an argument. You can bring people along.

They build an audience without the burnout. I publish a blog post maybe once a month. But micro-essays? I can do those weekly without feeling drained.

And there's something else: writing micro-essays makes you a better thinker. Forcing yourself to distill an idea to 800 words teaches you what's true and what's fluff. It teaches you precision.

A Format Built for This

When I started building Jottings, I wasn't thinking about micro-essays specifically. I was thinking about a simpler way to write online—something between a social feed and a blog.

But as I worked on it, I realized that's exactly what we needed. A place where micro-essays make sense. Where a 1,000-word thought gets the same respect as a 100-word one. Where your writing can be short and complete at the same time.

Jottings isn't about throwing thoughts at the wall. It's about publishing ideas you've actually thought through—even if they're not book-length.

Your Turn

If you've ever had a thought that was too much for a tweet but felt too rough for a blog post, you've encountered the space where micro-essays live.

Try it. Take an idea you care about. Write it until it feels complete. Then edit it until it feels urgent. Cut every word that doesn't earn its place.

You might find—like I did—that saying more with less isn't a limitation. It's a superpower.

Want to start publishing your micro-essays? Jottings is designed for exactly this. No friction, no overthinking. Just you and your ideas. Give it a try.