Devon Wilson

This is a sample long-form post so you can see how the left-hand outline behaves. Scroll down a bit and the outline fades out. Scroll back to the top and it returns.

Why long-form still matters

We’re told that attention spans are shrinking. That the only way to hold anyone is with a hook in the first three seconds. And yet the essays, the deep dives, the pieces that take twenty minutes to read keep finding their audience.

Something in us still wants to go deep. To follow a single thread until it runs out. To let an idea develop across sections instead of a single screen.

What makes a long read work

Not every long piece earns its length. The ones that do tend to share a few traits.

A clear throughline

The reader should always know, in a sentence, what the piece is about. Not every twist has to be telegraphed, but the central question or argument should be visible from the start and reinforced as you go.

Sections that do one job

Each section should have a single job: introduce a problem, give an example, turn the argument, offer a counterpoint, land the conclusion. When a section tries to do two things, the reader gets lost.

Room to breathe

White space, subheadings, short paragraphs. Long blocks of text feel like work. Breaking the piece into named sections (like this one) gives the reader landmarks and a sense of progress.

The outline on the left

If you’re reading this on a desktop or wide screen, you’ll see an outline on the left built from the headings in this post. It’s there so you can jump to any section without scrolling.

Once you scroll down a little, the outline fades out so it doesn’t compete with the text. Scroll back up and it comes back. That way it’s useful when you’re orienting, and invisible when you’re in the flow.

How we lost (and find) attention

It’s become fashionable to say we’ve lost the ability to concentrate. The evidence is real: notifications, infinite feeds, the habit of tab-switching. But loss implies we had it once and it’s gone. More accurate might be: we’ve trained ourselves to scatter attention, and we can train ourselves to gather it again.

Reading long-form is one way to practice. Not as a test, but as a choice. You sit down. You open one thing. You follow it to the end.

The role of the writer

The writer’s job in a long piece is to make that choice feel worth it. Every section should give the reader a reason to keep going. A new idea, a surprising example, a turn in the argument. If the reader feels they’ve already gotten the point, they’ll leave—and they’re not wrong to.

The role of the reader

The reader brings the other half: willingness to stay. To not check the phone at the first pause. To let a difficult sentence sit for a moment instead of bouncing. It’s a small act of trust. The writer promises to reward it.

Slowness as feature

In a world optimized for speed, slowness can feel like a bug. But in writing, and in reading, slowness is often the point. It’s where nuance lives. Where “it’s complicated” gets room to be complicated.

That doesn’t mean every post should be long. Short has its place. But when you have something that needs space—an argument, a memoir, a technical walkthrough—giving it that space is a kind of respect. For the idea and for the reader.

Wrapping up

So: the outline is there when you need it, gone when you don’t. The post is long enough to show how sections stack and how the TOC fills in. Use it as a reference for your own long-form pieces—same structure, your words.

This is a demo post. You can delete it or keep it as a template.