Creative Dysmorphia (#16)
The Hidden Bias Distorting Your Strongest Work
Two years ago, I was rebaptized by my best friend, an ordained man of faith.
If you’re not religious, stay with me.
In the weeks leading up to the day, he asked a few quiet, intentional questions:
Who do you want to attend?
Where do you want it to happen?
Are there any texts you want read?
On the morning of the baptism, I drove to his house. He greeted me barefoot at the door. We walked through the living room, shared a hug, and stepped into the backyard.
The air was still. Just us, the water, and the moment.
We waded into the pool. He baptized me in the presence of God alone. Then another hug, and we stepped out.
No ceremony. No excess. Just a clean, deliberate act that met its moment fully.
It was simple. It was intentional. It was complete.
And yet, in my writing, I forget this.
I plan the article. I structure it clearly. I test it with AI. I reread the logic. I feel that flicker of satisfaction: this works.
Then a few weeks pass.
I reopen it.
And the logic no longer feels crisp. The structure feels unremarkable. The simplicity feels like a shortcut. I start to question whether it’s strong enough.
Why Your Best Work Starts to Feel Wrong
The doubt is creative dysmorphia.
It’s the distortion that appears after the article has achieved its aims.
It doesn’t arrive loudly. It takes the shape of small, seemingly thoughtful edits. You adjust a phrase to make it tighter. You add an edge case for completeness. You revise a paragraph for balance. Each decision feels minor. Together, they begin to bend the shape of the work away from the user.
As a technical writer, you’re expected to generate content, validate logic, simplify complexity, structure information, and review your own work. Over time, this builds a bias toward critique. And it works. You learn to spot problems quickly. You anticipate confusion. You author content that anticipates the next question before it’s asked.
But eventually, if the piece doesn’t resist you, you begin to wonder whether it’s doing enough.
You might reread the article after two weeks. You no longer see the rationale behind your structural choices. The soft introduction now feels slow. The clarity feels obvious. The simplicity feels suspicious. You can’t see the depth anymore because you’re no longer holding the full shape in your head.
So, you revise.
You remove the slower opening because it no longer feels efficient. You add an exception because it makes the writing look more complete. You compress the structure, even though it already worked.
What you’ve done is optimize for your discomfort.
The article is now weightier, denser, more technical. But not better.
That instinct to equate clarity with shallowness isn’t personal. It’s psychological.
The Psychology Behind the Doubt
In 2025, researchers ran a series of experiments on something that seemed routine: Terms of Use agreements.
Participants were shown two versions of the same policy. One was dense and legalistic. The other used short sentences, direct phrasing, and clear structure. Readers trusted the company more when the policy was easy to read. The tone suggested openness, sincerity, even ethical intent. But they trusted the terms themselves less. Simplicity made them uneasy, as if something that clear couldn’t possibly carry legal weight.
While the study doesn’t invoke the term, this pattern closely mirrors what cognitive psychology calls the fluency effect: when something is too easy to process, people may start to doubt its credibility or depth.
This bias isn’t limited to legal content.
Ask a bodybuilder how he knows he’s improving, and he won’t point to the mirror. He’ll talk about pain. The soreness. The exhaustion. The struggle. If the gains show up too fast or arrive without enough visible effort, he starts to question whether they’re real.
We do the same thing with our writing.
The article reads cleanly. The logic is sound. The structure holds from start to finish. The language is natural and unforced. Nothing interrupts the flow. And somehow, that lack of resistance becomes a reason to doubt its strength.
The Kind of Doubt You Should Listen To
Not all doubt is a sign of distortion.
Some discomfort arises because the work is still incomplete. The structure may be in place, but the reasoning remains unresolved. The tone may follow company guidelines, but the intent is unclear.
These moments usually emerge early in the process, when the structure is forming but clarity hasn’t arrived. The questions you’re asking are grounded in accuracy and alignment:
Is this correct?
Does this support the user’s next step?
Have I clearly conveyed the feature’s purpose?
When the answers to these questions are uncertain, revision is not overthinking. It is necessary.
This kind of discomfort reflects focus, not insecurity. It often points to real gaps in the work, and noticing them is part of the craft.
Some doubts are worth honoring. Others aren’t. Knowing the difference is the beginning. What you do next is what shapes the work.
How to Work Without Losing the Thread
Finishing well requires more discipline than beginning. That challenge intensifies when clarity starts to feel too easy, and simplicity is mistaken for incompleteness.
These four practices will help you determine when the work is finished and avoid revisions driven by doubt rather than need:
Apply strategic distance. Reread the document after two to three days. This gives you enough distance to regain perspective without losing connection to the problem it solves or the constraints that shaped your decisions.
Get a calibrated reviewer. Choose one reader who can assess whether the piece effectively meets the needs of the audience.
Use AI to stress-test the logic. Prompt a language model to challenge the structure, reasoning, and completeness of the piece. Focus the prompt on logic, not tone. This will expose weak points that merit revision.
Benchmark against a reference article. Ask a language model to evaluate your draft against a high-caliber reference article. Ask it to compare structure, clarity, and completeness. This helps you assess quality without relying on instinct.
Once the work holds, the discipline is in letting it go.
The Close
When I stepped into the pool that morning, there was no audience, no music, no spectacle. Just me, my friend, and the water.
The act was deliberate. Every detail had been considered in advance, and then let go. The experience was complete because it was clear. It did exactly what it needed to do.
That’s what good writing does, too.
It won’t feel impressive. It may not even feel like work. But ease isn’t a flaw. What matters is whether the piece meets the reader at the point of confusion and carries them forward.
If it does that, the work is done.
Let the writing stand.
And then step away.