I find the opposite to be true. Writing what I know often turns to shit, albeit shit buried in delusional ideations that make me believe it’s great. For example, writing about my experience with addiction is so familiar and heart wrenching that I can’t put enough space between the real story and what I want the story to be. However, writing about something I don’t know, Victorian paddle games to be played in formal dress, gives me ample freedom to play and put down a coherent thought.
Of course, all my coherence is filtered through the lens of said addiction so, in reality, when I write about Victorian paddle games played in formal dress I am in reality writing about my experience in addiction.