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.

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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.

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The Psychology Behind the Doubt

In 2025, researchers ran a series of experiments on something that seemed routine: Terms of Use agreements.