So, this whole thing with Molly Reardon. It wasn’t like I was looking for a new guru or anything. I just kept bumping into mentions of her, in really old forum threads and half-forgotten blog comments, when I was trying to figure out a different way to, you know, put stuff online. People talked about her like she had this secret sauce for genuine connection, way before everything became about likes and shares.
I got curious. What was this “Molly Reardon way”? From what I could piece together, it was about being super intentional with your words, almost like digital journaling but with a very specific, unpolished honesty. No gloss, no marketing speak, just raw observation. I thought, okay, I’ll give that a shot for a personal project I was mulling over. Seemed simple, right? Famous last words.
First, I tried to find some solid examples of her actual work, or a clear guide to her supposed principles. Good luck with that. It was like chasing a ghost. Lots of vague praise, but concrete stuff? Almost nothing. It felt like everyone was talking about a legend they’d only heard about secondhand.
So, I cobbled together what I thought her approach might be:
- Write like nobody’s reading, but be respectful if they are.
- Forget about keywords or trends. Just say the thing.
- Short, direct sentences. No fluff.
- Focus on the small details, the stuff people usually ignore.
I started trying to write a few pieces this way. Man, it was tough. Like trying to unlearn years of how the internet trains you to communicate. Every sentence felt awkward. My brain kept screaming, “This is too plain! No one will read this! Where’s the hook?!” It was surprisingly draining. I’d spend an hour and have three sentences I didn’t immediately hate.
And here’s the kicker, why I was even bothering with this uphill battle. It’s because I was so incredibly fed up. I’d just come off a project, a freelance gig, where the client wanted “authentic storytelling” but what they really meant was “make our sales pitch sound like a heartwarming viral video.” Every word I wrote was scrutinized for its “engagement potential” and “brand alignment.” I had to sit in meetings where they’d pick apart sentences, asking if we could make it “more punchy” or “add a stronger call to action” to a piece that was supposed to be about, like, the quiet beauty of rainy days or something equally non-commercial.
I remember this one time, I’d written something I was actually a bit proud of. It felt real. And the feedback came back: “Love the vibe, but can we inject more of our key selling points? And maybe a link to the new product line in the first paragraph?” I felt like a digital short-order cook, just churning out content designed to trick people into clicking. My own voice was completely lost in the noise. I was tired of it. Deeply tired.
So, this Molly Reardon thing, as frustrating and vague as it was, felt like trying to find a way back to something more… solid. Even if I couldn’t perfectly replicate whatever she was doing, the act of trying, of consciously resisting the urge to perform or optimize, was the point. It was like a palate cleanser for my brain.
Did I master the “Molly Reardon way”? Probably not. I don’t even know if it’s a real, defined “way.” But the whole exercise forced me to slow down. To think about what I actually wanted to say, instead of what I thought people wanted to hear, or what some algorithm might favor. It didn’t magically fix anything, but it was a start. A small, quiet rebellion against the noise. And sometimes, that’s all you can do, right?
