The Gardener's Gnarled Fence: On the Necessity of a Boundary to Grow Against
I was recently asked a question that seemed simple but whose tendrils reached deep: “If I want to build a real audience, should I write whatever I want, or should I only write what I think will be popular?” It’s a question that rests on a false binary, on the assumption that freedom and success are opposing forces in the garden of creativity. The anxious writer paces an open field, paralyzed by endless possibility, or else presses their face against a high, blank wall, seeing no way to plant anything of their own.
A better image, I’ve come to believe, is that of an old garden fence. It’s not a prison wall; it’s a gnarled, wooden, and decidedly human-made boundary. It doesn’t exist to confine the garden but to define it. The fence marks the line between the wild, untamed field and the cultivated plot. It’s a constraint, yes, but one that makes growth possible. A vine will sprawl chaotically across the ground without a trellis, but trained along a fence, it reaches for the sun, its leaves arranged to catch the light, its fruit easy to find. The fence is the condition for the vine’s most beautiful form.
Writing “whatever you want” is the untamed field. It’s essential work, the raw compost of ideas, but it rarely feeds anyone else. Writing only “what’s popular” is like building a sterile, concrete courtyard—orderly, predictable, and devoid of the specific, quirky life that makes a garden worth visiting. The fertile middle ground is the fence. Your fence is your chosen subject, your niche, your particular voice, your editorial focus for a blog or a book. It is the constraint that gives your freedom its shape and power.
The Strength of the Gnarled Post
Notice, too, that the best fences are not perfect. They are gnarled. They have knots and quirks; they are made of wood that has a history. This is your unique perspective, the slight warp in your understanding, the personal obsession that others might not share. This imperfection is not a weakness; it’s the very thing that makes the boundary strong and authentic. An audience doesn’t gather around a generic, mass-produced plastic fence. It gathers around a real one, built by hand, with character. They come to see what will grow there, against that specific, weathered wood.
An audience is built on expectation and trust. The fence is the promise you make to them. It says, “Within this space, you will find writing on *this* subject, explored with *this* sensibility.” It allows readers to find you, and more importantly, to return to you. They learn the shape of your garden. They know its seasons. The boundary you set—be it thematic, stylistic, or tonal—is not a limitation on your creativity; it is the frame that makes your creativity recognizable and meaningful to someone else.
So, do not see the choice as one between total freedom and soulless pandering. Instead, ask yourself: what is the fence around my garden? What are the posts I will drive into the ground to give my ideas a structure to climb? Define your space. Let it be specific, let it be a little gnarled with your own peculiarities, and then cultivate within it with wild abandon. The audience will come not for the infinite field, but for the particular, thriving world you have chosen to bound and nurture.
Notes & further reading
A few pages I came back to while writing this: