Derek Thompson, a staff writer at The Atlantic and author of Hit Makers, discusses his creative process, the craft of writing, and how ideas move through culture. He draws on his background in theater, his ritualized daily routine, and his fascination with tension, naming, and musical prose to explain how he turns complex topics into compelling stories. The conversation spans his philosophy on criticism, the role of rants in discovering truth, the homogenization of media, and why writing remains a deeply fulfilling vocation.
Derek’s writing process and environment
He writes in a “cocoon of darkness”—a basement with the lights off, lit only by the screen—to create tunnel vision and focus exclusively on the relationship between himself and the page.
His daily life is highly ritualized: same breakfast, same coffee, same dog walk, same work hours (8:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m.), so that all novelty-seeking energy is funneled into writing.
He does not write by hand; ideas often arrive at his fingertips, as if the act of typing reveals the thought rather than preceding it.
He describes the phenomenological experience of writing as quasi-mystical—sometimes the idea doesn’t feel like it’s in his head until he sees it on the page.
The influence of theater on his writing
Before becoming a writer, Derek was a professional actor in Washington, DC, and loved the immediate feedback loop of live performance.
Theater taught him that “every good scene is a fight”—conflict and tension are essential to engaging storytelling.
This background helps him imagine how readers will interpret his sentences, making the solitary act of writing more socially aware.
He sees writing as fundamentally alone, but theater trained him to anticipate audience reaction, which is crucial for internet writing.
Conflict, tension, and agreeableness
Derek is “pathologically agreeable”—he dislikes being disliked and avoids disrespecting others, even when critiquing their ideas.
He strives to steelman opposing arguments before explaining why he thinks they’re wrong, so readers recognize he’s engaging fairly.
He believes tension is underrated in nonfiction: he structures ideas using binaries (“on the one hand… on the other hand”) to create a thesis-antithesis-synthesis arc.
Example: In a controversial article on masking, he argued that high-quality masks work as a product, but mask mandates often fail as a policy—using the analogy that broccoli is healthy, but mandating babies to eat it doesn’t mean it’ll succeed in every household.
Dealing with criticism and being wrong
He experiences “bubbles of despair” when he gets something wrong, especially in print, but has learned through meditation and time that all feelings are temporary.
He tries to stay in a “temperate zone of emotionality”—not too high when an article succeeds, not too low when it fails—because both states pass.
He encourages writers to seek out critics who are “rooting for you,” not just trying to dunk on you, and to cultivate feedback that helps you improve.
Moments of insight and the subconscious
He rarely has useful ideas in the shower (a common cliché); instead, insights come while making coffee, walking around the house, or falling asleep.
He doesn’t dream about writing, but thoughts about it swirl constantly upon waking at night.
He references Dalí’s technique of sleeping with a ball to capture subconscious creativity, though he’s skeptical that dreams are smarter than conscious thought—he sees them as just another part of the mental machinery.
The “9 a.m. mindset”
When he started at The Atlantic as an economics writer despite knowing nothing about the subject, he adopted a discipline: each morning, he’d begin with a question he couldn’t answer, spend the day researching, and write the article by afternoon.
Crucially, he writes for his “9 a.m. self”—as if explaining the topic to someone as ignorant as he was six hours earlier—to ensure clarity and honesty.
This prevents him from hiding behind jargon or acronyms that mask incomplete understanding.
Formula for interestingness: novel + important
Derek defines “interesting” as the intersection of novelty and importance.
He warns against two traps: being important but not novel (e.g., restating known math truths) or novel but not important (e.g., tabloid sensationalism).
He aims to live at that intersection, using tension and binary thinking to frame ideas in memorable ways.
Writing musically and naming things
He loves “antimetabole” (an ABA structure like “Ask not what your country can do for you…”) because it turns ideas into music and makes them memorable.
Repetition is the “god particle of music”—without it, there’s no rhythm, no song.
He’s obsessed with naming concepts (e.g., “workism,” “hygiene theater,” “abundance agenda”) because names make ideas stick and spread—they’re like viral software running on readers’ minds.
To write musically, he advises studying writers you admire until their rhythm flows out of you unconsciously.
Hit Makers and the psychology of hits
Hit Makers began as an exploration of entertainment economics but evolved into a study of human psychology: Why do people like what they like?
The core thesis: people are torn between familiarity bias (liking what’s known) and exploration drive (seeking novelty). Successful hits braid familiarity and surprise.
The book changed his own writing: he realized his thesis wasn’t clear enough, and since then, he prioritizes simplicity of messaging without sacrificing nuance.
He seeks the “bumper sticker” that contains the full complexity within it.
Rants as mutations in the search for truth
Derek values “rants”—unproven, intuitive claims—as necessary mutations in the Darwinian process of discovering truth.
A rant might attract evidence, expert feedback, or data that confirms or refines the instinct.
He compares writing to evolution: most mutations fail, but some find fit and reveal deeper truths.
Example: His article “The Dark Side of Moneyball” began as a rant about baseball becoming boring, then uncovered data showing how analytics optimized the game at the expense of its infinite-game appeal.
Homogenization of culture and the internet’s potential for weirdness
He laments that smart creators, driven by algorithms and risk aversion, produce homogenized content (e.g., sequels in Hollywood, formulaic nonfiction).
Yet the internet allows niche, weird voices to find audiences at scale—just as a hyper-specific bar can thrive in a 35-million-person metro like Tokyo.
The paradox: audiences are basic in aggregate but weird as individuals; the internet should empower individuality, but algorithmic incentives often suppress it.
Canonization and gatekeepers
Using the Impressionist painters as an example, he shows how canons form through contingent historical moments (e.g., Gustave Caillebotte’s collection becoming the definitive Impressionist canon after being donated to a museum).
Today, with fragmented media and weakened gatekeepers (no national curricula, no shared TV finales), it’s harder to establish universal canons.
Fame is often less about inherent quality and more about historical path dependence.
Why writing matters to him
Writing offers unparalleled freedom: the blank page holds infinite possibilities—some could get you fired, others could win awards, others could ignite fury.
He quotes Kierkegaard: “Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom”—and he finds that dizziness beautiful.
Like acting, writing lets you change the quality of someone’s consciousness with nothing but words on a page.
It’s fun, it’s meaningful, and it’s worth decades of his life.
