2: The Soul of Great Writing
What makes some writing feel alive? And how can we bring that quality into our own work?
In this episode, I delve into the “soul” of great writing, both what it looks like on the page and how we as writers can invite it into our process.
We discuss why the best stories feel “inhabited”—and why that magic is actually something we can cultivate through intentional practice.
We explore:
Vulnerability vs. Performance: Why soulful writing requires us to risk rejection and the difference between “meaning-making” and “trauma dumping.”
Soul Spelunking: The essential inner work of uncovering your most authentic voice.
Writing as a Bridge: How great writing transmutes personal self-expression into a gift of transformation for others.
Listen below or on your favorite podcast app. The full text of the episode is also included below for your reading pleasure.
Episode text:
Before we dive in, I want to take a moment to acknowledge that things in the world, the country—might feel a little heavy right now. It’s the last week of January 2026 as I’m recording this, and recent events have been… a lot.
If you’ve been feeling weighed down, I hope you already know you’re not alone. But I also want to offer one small suggestion—something that helps me when I’m feeling down about things that are largely out of my control.
When the world feels heavy, I try to find a story that counterbalances that weight.
Not escapism or numbing out. Just… alternate input.
Because often what drains us isn’t just the events themselves—it’s the story those events seem to be telling. Maybe it feels like a story of decline, of things moving in the wrong direction. Maybe it feels like a story of hopelessness.
So to counterbalance that, it can help to remind yourself that there are also stories of hope. Of courage. Of goodness. Of people pushing back against injustice. Of small lights that flicker in the darkness and, against all odds, prevail.
You can look for those stories in the news—GoodGoodGood.Co is a great source for that—but you can also find them in art. In literature. In films.
One that came to mind for me is a movie a listener recommended (thank you, Nicole!) called Rebel Ridge. It’s an action crime thriller with a touch of drama, and it features one of the most inspiring protagonists I’ve seen in a while. It’s also just beautifully made.
Fair warning: it’s rated R and does contain violence, so it’s not for kids. But for me, it ended up being a surprisingly encouraging portrait of what one person can do in the face of prejudice, exploitation, and entrenched corruption.
It’s also a fantastic example of storytelling and character development, with layered characters and a plot twist I genuinely didn’t see coming.
It’s streaming on Netflix if you want to check it out.
Let me know if you watch it, and I’d love to hear if you have any other recommendations for stories of hope. Drop them in the comments.
Subscribe for free on Substack to get future episodes delivered straight to your inbox.
(select “no pledge” to subscribe for free)
Today we’re talking about the soul of great writing. What does that mean, and why does it matter?
Great writing is often either treated as the result of magic—raw talent, divine inspiration, a stroke of genius—or reduced to the product of technical skill— correct grammar, story structure, productivity systems, the “right” way to do it.
But neither of those gives us the full picture.
I believe, and it’s the premise undergirding this whole podcast, that great writing emerges from the intersection of those two approaches, the soul and the science—and that problems arise when we privilege one at the expense of the other.
Now, the word “soul” can mean a lot of different things to different people. So what do I mean by “the soul” of writing?
We can approach that in both a descriptive and a prescriptive way.
The first is about the essence of a piece of writing, the human spark at its core—something I explored a good bit in the previous episode. In this descriptive sense, we might talk about the idea that great writing has soul, or that truth and transformation form the soul of any great piece of writing. The idea that there’s something ineffable, something transcendent at its core.
In a more prescriptive sense, the soul of great writing is about what we as writers can do in order to cultivate that essence, or at least to leave room for it—the “soulful” practices that see inspiration as an essential part of the creative process.
We’ll talk about both on this podcast, today and in the future, because both matter, and because they are intertwined.
One of my favorite quotes since I was a kid is, “Writing is the soul on the page.” I don’t think that’s necessarily true of all writing, but I think it’s definitely true of great writing.
It’s something we can sense on an instinctive level. The writing feels “inhabited,” like something of the author has been left on the page.
But what does that actually mean in a more practical sense? It can feel like it’s this magical quality, more the result of luck than anything else. And sure, there’s an element of it that does feel beyond our control—that IS beyond our control. That comes from outside of ourselves. You might think of it as a creative force, the muse, or the holy spirit. It goes by many names.
We’ve probably all had that experience at least once when it feels like the words are being downloaded into our brains and we’re just transcribing them. For most of us, that’s rare, but it happens.
We’ve also probably had the experience of feeling utterly blocked, as if there’s something standing between us and that creative wellspring. In my experience, that block is almost always a form of fear—but that’s a topic for another episode.
The point is, however we conceive of it, I think we can agree there’s an aspect of creativity, and thus writing, that is inherently creative in the sense that it forms something new that didn’t exist before—there’s an aspect of creativity that is mysterious, not entirely within our control.
But, after three decades pursuing writing as a craft and almost two decades teaching it, I’ve learned that there’s a lot more than we might think about this soul quality that we can control, or at least influence.
For me, and for many of my clients, it helps to think about soul—which in this sense can be interchangeable with creativity or inspiration—as something relational, rather than magical. As someone who believes in a personal God, this has extra resonance for me. The source of all creativity is a person, so to engage in creativity is to engage in a relationship—both with the creative force and with ourselves.
Writing that has that “soul” quality we’re discussing feels that way, I believe, because invisible yet still perceptible traces of the author have been left on the page—and perhaps traces of the capital P person from whom all creativity flows as well. In that sense, it’s more relational than ordinary writing is.
We talked last week about great writing being true. Soul in writing is inseparable from truth—not just or even necessarily factual truth, but emotional and spiritual honesty. When the writer has said the truest thing they can say in the most authentic way they can say it, we feel it.
That’s why the prerequisite for soulful writing is vulnerability. This is most obvious when the topic is more personal, but even in prescriptive nonfiction, for example, you can communicate your ideas in a way that is more or less vulnerable. Same for fiction: even if the story is fantastical, there’s a deeper resonance when the author has invested something of themselves into the characters.
To be vulnerable means to put yourself at risk of criticism, of rejection. And there are all kinds of subtle ways that our brains try to protect us from that risk. This self-censorship can come in regards to the topics we allow ourselves to address, perhaps the most obvious way, but it can also sneak in to impact the ways we address certain issues, our choice of words, the level of detail, the tone.
To produce writing with soul, we must be willing to risk criticism, not the least of which often comes from within. That’s why it must always start with that inner excavation I mentioned last week, that process of diving deep into the subterranean of our own psyches to face whatever lies there, to look at it honestly, to get curious about what it has to teach us, and then to journey back to the surface with that truth in hand. I like to call it “soul spelunking.”
If we skip that step, we’ll almost always struggle with a fierce inner critic when we’re trying to write. Not that the inner critic disappears when we do our soul work, but it loses its power. Or maybe it’s that we arm ourselves with something far more powerful: that deep conviction of what is true and what matters most, which allows us to pat that inner critic on the head, gently push it out of our creative space, and lock the door behind it while we write.
Then, we can write not only about what really matters but also with our most authentic voice.
Voice in writing can be defined as your personality on the page. A writer’s voice is entirely unique. It can change slightly from piece to piece, depending on genre, purpose, or subject matter, but there’s something constant, a je ne se quois that marks it as uniquely theirs.
I’m sure I’ll do an episode all about voice at some point, but for today, I’ll just say that voice isn’t something you manufacture—it’s something you uncover. It’s the way of communicating that is most fully “you”.
Only it can be incredibly challenging to peel away the layers of “shoulds” that conceal our true voice from even ourselves.
That’s why it’s such important work as writers to name those rules we have learned to live by—both in our writing and in our lives more broadly. To identify the ways we’re playing it safe, trying to protect ourselves from that risk of rejection.
Cause here’s the thing: we can’t ever fully succeed at that. To be alive is to be at risk. Pain, including relational pain, comes for all of us at one time or another, in one form or another. But wouldn’t you rather suffer as a consequence for being your truest self rather than suffer anyway for hiding it?
That’s yet another topic for another episode. But the main point about this for today is that the soul of great writing comes from showing up to the page as your fullest, truest, most courageous self.
However, to be great, that vulnerability has to be more than pure self-expression.
It goes back to relationship. The purpose of writing is to communicate. We talked about that last week. Apart from journaling, which is a way to communicate with ourselves, we write in order to communicate with a reader—to share something of ourselves, yes, but in order to help them transform.
That’s why great writing doesn’t stop at self-expression. It’s self-expression transmuted into insight, meaning, and connection.
Ok, you might be asking, so how do we do that?
It starts with intention. Our vulnerability can’t come from a place of neediness or performance.
In great writing, vulnerability isn’t a bid for reassurance, validation, or applause. It’s not “look how honest I’m being” or “tell me this was brave.” When the writer reaches for validation, even subconsciously, the work ends up prioritizing the writer’s need rather than the reader’s transformation. Soulful writing, in contrast, offers truth as a gift, not as a performance.
It’s also not trauma dumping. It’s easy to hear “vulnerability” and think “raw emotion.” Writing from real pain can be powerful. But unfiltered emotional release does not make great writing. If the page is a place to unload hurt, without reflection and insight, it stays personal therapy—not literature.
The difference is meaning-making. Soulful writing doesn’t just discharge pain; it transforms pain into purpose.
The soulful writer tells the truth about their experience—but from a place of reflection, not just reaction. They take the time and do the work to wrestle with their experience and unearth the deeper meaning it reveals. Then, the reader isn’t dropped into chaos; they’re guided into insight.
It’s not about pretending to have all the answers or presenting a perfectly polished persona. It’s about actively discovering something through the process of writing, of being open to that unfolding. When the writer does that, the work carries the energy of real inquiry—of someone thinking, feeling, and becoming in real time.
Truly soulful writing doesn’t just recount what happened and how it felt or lecture us about what it should teach us; it wrestles with why it matters.
I’m often asking my memoir students, how did you feel here? Can you show us how this affected you? That’s because emotions are the glue that connect us to one another.
But emotional intensity alone doesn’t create impact. Big feelings on the page don’t automatically move a reader.
On its own, authenticity in the form of emotional intensity can read as messy, not moving. That’s equally true for the texture of the writing. Authenticity doesn’t equal messy or unpolished prose—though it can mean breaking some of the quote unquote rules. But it’s important not to mistake… laziness for true self-revelation. Authenticity isn’t a vibe you perform, and it isn’t a lack of editing; rather, it’s the result of real inner reckoning shared with honesty and care.
In other words, authentic, soulful writing can—and should—still be deliberately crafted.
That’s where the science part comes in.
Without craft, structure, and attention to the reader experience, we risk overwhelming the reader, adding to their inner turmoil instead of offering them a way through.
Really great soulful writing begins with vulnerability, but it is shaped by intention—to serve the reader—and refined by the fire of revision, until it glows like burnished gold. The details are personal, concrete, and particular — but the story points beyond the self. Somehow, through the specificity of one life, the reader glimpses their own.
By showing up fully, reflecting deeply, and shaping carefully, we can write pieces that matter, that transform both ourselves and the readers we hope to reach—words that become a bridge to connect two souls, drawing one another into a deeper, fuller reality.
Ultimately, when I talk about soul in great writing, I am referring to writing that goes beyond technical brilliance and says something profoundly true, that carries that undefinable human spark, the essence of the author, and that invites the reader into powerful transformation.
This kind of soulfulness cannot be manufactured or produced, only revealed, invited, and protected.
It starts with acknowledging that we are not machines, churning out words onto a page. We are human beings with souls, and those souls need tending. Future episodes will talk about different ways writers can tend to their souls, but for now, start by approaching yourself gently, listening to what your body and your emotions might be telling you, and trying to work with your curiosity instead of forcing yourself down a pre-defined path.
Then, give yourself permission to show up as your fullest, truest self both in your writing and in life. You might have to start small, but see if you can pay attention to the ways you censor yourself, and ask gentle questions about where those ideas come from and who they serve.
Challenge yourself to write the boldest truest thing you can write. This is no easy task if you’ve spent most of your life trying to fit into a mold of what a good person or writer is supposed to be. But this is some of the most important work you can do. It’s the key to unlocking your unique writing voice and—as I was reminded just this week with a client—the key to discovering what it is that you really want to write about. As long as you’re playing it safe, your best writing will remain trapped.
And that is a huge loss, not just for you and your writing dreams, but for all of us.
The world needs your story, your voice. We don’t need another Dickens or Hemingway, another Annie Dillard or Maya Angelou, as much as I love them. We need YOU and your words.
To peel back the layers of shame and doubt, to dive deep into the dark corners of your soul and bring forth the treasures of truth you find there, illuminated by the essential work of reflection, is the invitation and responsibility of being a writer.
That is your sacred calling.
And I’m here to help. Whether that’s through this podcast or social media posts, or something more hands on, I’m here to support you in this brave, important work… you can find me on Instagram or send me an email at mara @ maraeller.com. Let me know where you are in this journey so I can encourage you more personally.
That’s it for today’s episode. Next week, I’ll be unpacking what I mean by the “science” of great writing—what carries that soul intact from one mind to another, what makes words work.
Then, we’ll starting a series on my favorite genre, memoir. And as part of that, I’ll be doing a close reading of a fantastic memoir you’ve probably never heard of called What We Carry, by Maya Shanbhag Lang (that link also invites you download a discussion guide, but careful—it contains spoilers).
If you’ve ever wanted to write memoir—or just read like a writer—this is for you! Grab a copy now so you can be ready to follow along over the next few weeks.
I’ll be back next Wednesday, taking you deeper into the transformative power of writing.
Until then, remember, words are more than ink on a page—they’re a path to wholeness.
I’d love to hear from you!
Do you struggle to write with your truest, fullest self? What helps you show up to the page authentically when that inner-critic gets loud?
And if you really loved it, please consider sharing this post/episode with a writer friend.
