Writing with Aura

Let me tell you – I love being Gen-Z. Not only are we deeply unserious (there is a meme for everything), but there is a nonsensical word for everything. Chat. Goon. Rizz. One of my favorites? Aura. Aura is not just about vibes. It is carrying yourself like the main character in a movie, even when you are running on two hours of sleep and a questionable amount of caffeine. Aura is what makes someone confidently give a completely wrong answer in class, thinking they cooked, while the rest of us nod along like “Yes, Chef”.

Writing works the same way. Nobody wants to read something that sounds like it was spat out by a malfunctioning AI programmed to mimic academic jargon. You do not need to sound like the lifeless textbooks you may or may not have pirated to be taken seriously. What you do need is aura. Writing with aura is about knowing that your words have weight, your perspective matters and that even if you don’t have all the answers, you can sure as hell sound like you do. Half of academia is just people confidently arguing about things that no one actually agrees on anyway.

With this in mind, let’s talk about how to write with aura—how to wield words with charisma and make people believe every single sentence you put on the page (even the ones you made up on the spot).

It’s Nothing Personal

Some people meticulously outline their thoughts before writing, crafting a detailed plan that guides every paragraph. Others stare at a blank screen for hours, waiting for divine inspiration to strike (or for the crushing weight of a deadline to force their hand). Then there are those who shamelessly word-vomit hot garbage just to have words on the page before shaping it into a brilliant masterpiece. 

Which method produces the best results overall? Well, all of them. 

The problem many students face is that they assume there is a “right” way to write—a singular process that guarantees success. There isn’t. Honestly, who cares if you have a non-traditional approach to writing? Yes, learning how to outline is fine and dandy, but why harp on it? Some of the best writers in history were absolute menaces to structure. Hemingway wrote standing up. Maya Angelou rented a hotel room just to get away from distractions.

What matters isn’t the method, but the result: Does it work for you? If yes, then you’re doing it right.

Florida State University’s Emerita Professor of English Kathleen Blake Yancey reminds us that writing is deeply personal. Yes, it’s that deep. No two writers have the same approach, and that is not a flaw—it’s a strength. Your process is shaped by your background, your experiences and the way you think. The worst thing you can do is force yourself into a method that makes you miserable. 

In elementary school, my least favorite part of completing writing prompts was mandatory prewriting. Oftentimes, before my teacher read the prompt, I already had my story or essay planned out. I would sometimes jot ideas (in the form of a few words) on random areas of paper if I needed more extensive planning. However, structured prewriting would impede on my process, especially if I was given some sort of outline or web with blanks for me to fill. Seriously, it started to make me feel like my process was flawed, all because my brain went faster than everyone else.

Fortunately, the few teachers who did try to implement this structure eventually let me have my own style. They knew that I was built different (in adulthood, this is called neurodivergence) and actually encouraged that, even if they did not completely understand.

This is exactly what you should do. Embrace what does work for you, even if it looks different from what your professors or peers are doing.

If you write best in complete silence, own that. If your best ideas come while dancing to music at full volume, groove away. If you need to talk through your ideas before you put them on paper, ramble on. Understand your writing rhythm and trust it instead of comparing yourself to others. The only “wrong” way to write is the way that makes you hate writing.

Everything You’ve Ever Written Has Trained You for This Moment

It is almost a rite of passage for students to panic when they encounter a writing assignment that feels unfamiliar. 

“I’ve never written a research paper before!” “I don’t know how to write a persuasive essay!” 

First of all—yes, you do. You just don’t know it yet.

Composition and rhetoric queen Andrea Lunsford argues that every act of writing builds on what came before. That means your hundreds of thousands of texts, your highly curated Instagram captions, your deeply unhinged late-night tweets—they have all been training you for this moment.

If you can write a passionate three-paragraph text convincing your friend not to go back to their toxic ex, congratulations! You can write an argumentative essay. If you can explain the latest pop culture drama in a way that makes total sense to your not-as-hip older professor, you already know how to summarize complex ideas.

Think about it. Writing an email to your professor is just a fancier version of texting your boss at your part-time job. A cover letter? That is just a formal way of hyping yourself up. The structure might change, but the core skills remain the same. Instead of freezing up when a new writing format lands in your lap, recognize the skills you already have and adapt them.

Writing is not some sacred, mystical skill that only “serious academics” have. It is something you have been doing your entire life. The real challenge is learning how to translate your existing skills into the language of academia. Don’t worry; it’s the same nonsense—just with citations.

If you are still convinced you are unqualified to write something, remember: every single person who has ever written anything started as a beginner. The only difference between a bad writer and a good one is that the good writer kept going.

You Know, You can Laugh a Little…

Distinguished academic Victor Villanueva makes an important point: writing isn’t just words on a page. It’s a reflection of you. Your style, your tone, the way you phrase your thoughts—it all reveals something about who you are. Still, for some reason, academic writing tricks people into thinking they have to sound like they were raised by a committee of 18th-century scholars with no sense of humor. No humor? In the year of “Symphony” memes? Outrageous.

This kind of teaching produces writing that is stiff and robotic – the kind that even makes ChatGPT seem human. Writing with aura means letting you shine through. This does not mean your academic paper needs to be packed with sarcasm and pop culture references (though, let’s be real, that would be more fun). It does mean that your writing should sound like you—just the best, most articulate version of you.

Oh, and let me emphasize: Big words don’t automatically make you sound smarter. If anything, they just make you sound like you Googled “synonyms for important” and picked the longest option. Clarity is key. If your reader has to reread a sentence three times just to understand it, that is a sign you are overcomplicating things.

Think about the best articles, essays and books you have read. Chances are, they did not sound like a legal contract. They had voice. Energy. Aura.

Your writing should, too.

Confidence = Authority. Authority = Aura.

The biggest difference between beginner writers and experienced ones? Confidence.

Ann M. Penrose and Cheryl Geisler found that beginner writers tend to treat academic texts like holy scripture—absolute, untouchable truth. Meanwhile, experienced writers know that academic sources are just arguments—arguments that can be questioned, debated and even completely dragged if necessary*.

Many students hesitate to insert their own ideas into their writing because they feel like they do not have the authority to do so. Authority in writing isn’t given. It’s taken. The moment you stop treating sources like untouchable scripture and start questioning them, you stop writing like a scared student and start writing like someone who actually belongs in the conversation.

Instead of just regurgitating what other scholars have said, push back. Challenge ideas. Make connections. Your voice matters just as much as the voices you are citing. When you approach writing this way, you stop sounding like you are doing homework and start sounding like someone with something to say. And that? That’s aura.

* – Strong emphasis on “if necessary”. The experienced writer in Penrose and Geisler’s study (Roger) honestly does too much. It’s to the point where he drags his own argument into uncertainty. Also, he is quite pompous. There is a balance to this. Do not be Roger. 

. . .

At the end of the day, writing is not just about following rules, meeting word counts or tricking your professor into thinking you read the entire 200-page textbook. It is about stepping into your voice, trusting your perspective and engaging with ideas in a way that feels natural and confident.

Whether you’re writing an academic paper, a blog post or a persuasive Reddit argument, the same principle applies: your voice has value.

Writing with aura means knowing that you do not need permission to sound like you know what you’re talking about—you already do. I do this all the time. I’m an academic with a little bit of swag. That’s my schtick. You will find yours too.

Go forth. Write boldly. And for the love of all things literary, stop being afraid to own the page.