Writing is the most sadistic form of self-inflicted pain known to humankind, second only to deciding to marathon all the Transformer movies in one sitting because you lost a bet or something.
Most of us walk around under the merciful illusion that our thoughts are orderly. They are not. Our brains are junk drawers filled with impressions, suspicions, slogans, half-remembered facts, emotional reflexes, borrowed opinions, and movie lines. We call this “having a point of view.”
Writing calls it “a problem.”
Writing is the business of turning mental clutter into public architecture. The materials are unstable. The workers are lazy. The blueprints keep changing. And the building inspector is a reader with limited patience.
Good writing is hard. Anyone who tells you otherwise is selling a course on Substack.
So how do we improve? We get help from experts who’ve figured out how to make this cursed process work. The tips below are drawn from the insights of Harvard professor Steven Pinker, “Seven” screenwriter Andrew Kevin Walker, playwright and filmmaker David Mamet, novelist Stephen King, and author Steven Pressfield.
Let’s get to it…
Read Read Read
You have to read a lot. This is the one tip everybody agrees on.
To be a good writer, you must always be reading. It’s a decree as immutable as the laws of physics or the fact that there will always be more Star Wars movies.
And, no, you don’t get to only read books you “vibe with.” Read everything. Read books that make you feel, books that make you think, books that make you want to throw them across the room in frustration because you’ll never write something that brilliant. (And then go pick up the book and apologize to it, because it’s not its fault you’re having a moment.)
You’re going to have to read some truly terrible books. I’m talking about those mystery novels at the airport with titles like Murder at Midnight’s Blood Dawn or romance books where the male lead is named Duke or Blaze. You may ask, “Why? I’m aiming for greatness!”
Reading bad writing is a crash course in what not to do. If you can train your brain to recognize terrible writing, you’ll be better at avoiding it in your own work. (In theory. There’s always a chance you’ll start using phrases like “heaving bosoms” without irony, but we’re playing the odds here.)
Keep reading a wide variety of stuff and eventually you’ll find something that really resonates with you. Now tear that bastard apart. Pick it to shreds. Notice the way the writer structures a chapter, the pacing, how they create tension or humor or whatever it is you like about them. Compare it to the terrible books you read to understand why it works. This is how you hone your style.
(For more on how to improve your writing, from “Seven” screenwriter Andrew Kevin Walker, click here.)
Reading is table stakes. What’s the most important question to ask yourself when writing?
The Most Important Question
Take a breath. Look at that screen and ask:
“Why should anyone care about this?”
If you can answer with confidence, without lying to yourself or anyone else, you’re on the right track. This is how you dodge the pitfall of being a narcissistic word factory.
Your reader is always a flight risk. They don’t owe you anything. They’re under no obligation to stick around. You are not their child’s soccer game. You earn their attention sentence by sentence. Time is the one thing the reader cannot get back (except in certain science-fiction franchises where the rules change with every sequel).
Nobody is disputing the honesty of your work. You’re spilling your guts. You’re raw, vulnerable, a flayed nerve pulsing on the page. But here’s the hard truth: honest doesn’t automatically equal interesting. Honesty is only the start. You have to twist it, frame it, serve it in a way that matters to someone else.
“But it’s my truth!” you cry, clutching your MacBook.
That’s nice.
That’s lovely.
Your truth is adorable, really, but is it…
Interesting? Is it funny, insightful, or moving enough to make people feel like they didn’t just waste their time?
Writing is not merely self-expression. Self-expression alone is what toddlers do with jam. Writing is communication, and communication requires the writer to ask not only “What do I feel?” but “What will this do in someone else’s mind?”
So step outside of yourself and look at your words like a stranger: “Why should anyone care about this?”
And beyond being generally interesting, know thy audience. This isn’t rocket science; it’s not even paper airplane science. People either want to learn or be entertained, or both at the same time. So entertain, enlighten, or take up the ukulele instead.
(To learn how to be a better writer from Harvard’s Steven Pinker, click here.)
Now what should you keep in mind when you start something?
Don’t Bury The Lede
Yeah, it’s an old saying from journalism. What’s it mean? Tell the reader what your point is. And tell them early. People need a reference point so they can follow what you’re saying. Without it they’re lost.
Burying the lede is not building suspense; it’s withholding oxygen. You’re not Hitchcock. No one’s at the edge of their seat thinking, “Oh, where could this be going?” They’re just irritated.
No one’s sticking around to dig for buried treasure; they’re looking for one clear, direct statement that tells them: This is what you’re getting if you keep reading.
(To learn how to give a great presentation, click here.)
What’s one of the most common mistakes writers make and how do you avoid it?
Beware “The Curse Of Knowledge”
Sounds like a Harry Potter spell but it’s actually way more annoying.
The curse of knowledge is when you know something but you forget that everyone else doesn’t know it. From your perspective, what you wrote makes sense but you’re not looking at it through an uninformed person’s eyes.
Example: ever neglect cleaning the house for a while? You kinda get used to how it looks. Then a friend is supposed to come over, and you look around from someone else’s perspective. Boom. You’re like, “Oh my god, this place is a crime scene!”
That’s the curse of knowledge: realizing that, yes, to you, someone with a physics PhD, this essay on advanced quantum mechanics makes sense but wouldn’t to the average reader.
So how do you avoid the curse? Assume the reader is dumb? No. Steven Pinker recommends you ask yourself, “Would this, as it is on the page, without context or explanation, make sense to my mom?”
Always remember: no one else lives inside your brain. (Thank God.)
(To learn how to make your writing more persuasive, click here.)
Lots of writing starts out strong… but then goes to pieces. How do you make sure this doesn’t happen to you?
Structure
Plenty of people seem to think that writing is just unloading your thoughts like a dump truck and then wondering why no one can stand to read it. Readers aren’t masochists. They want something that flows, progresses, and makes sense, not a scattered garage sale of ideas.
Readers don’t notice good structure, but they notice its effects. They viscerally feel, Ah, this writer knows what they’re doing. Structure is how you convince them that, yes, it’s safe to put their brain in your hands for a few minutes.
You don’t need a meticulously planned roadmap, but please, connect the dots. Make it feel like your thoughts are actually going somewhere, like you’re building toward something. When in doubt, keep asking yourself, “Why is this relevant?” If the answer is “Because I thought it was neat,” then congratulations!
You’ve found something to cut.
(For more tips on expert-level writing, click here.)
Writing can be well-structured but boooooring. How do you develop style?
Be Clear And Conversational
The real genius of good writing is clarity. It’s when you take a complicated idea and make it easy to understand. When you say something in five words that could’ve taken you fifty. If you can make complex ideas sound simple, people will think you’re a genius.
Don’t turn your writing into some literary Ouija board that readers have to interpret. “The horizon whispered secrets only the wind could understand.” What the hell is that supposed to mean? Are you telling me it was windy? Then just say “it was windy.” Yes, it’s that easy. Not every sentence has to sound like it was cribbed from the lost pages of Finnegans Wake, alright?
People don’t want to wade through some polysyllabic swamp to understand you. Don’t say “effulgent” when you can say “bright.” Don’t say “perambulate.” The word is “walk,” okay?
Readers do not want to work hard here. This isn’t cardio.
Just. Say. What. You. Mean. Don’t dance around it. Don’t build up to some grand reveal. Just put it out there. Good writing isn’t about showing off. It’s about being generous. It’s about holding your reader’s hand and saying, “Here, let me show you something cool.”
Keep it simple. Keep it clear. No one has ever said, “Wow, that was such a great read. I loved how I had to re-read each sentence four times.”
Stop trying to impress people. “Moreover,” “thusly,” “therein lies the paradox.” NO. Nobody talks like that. The last time someone said, “therein lies the paradox,” they were wearing a powdered wig and carrying a candelabra.
Be conversational. If your sentence sounds like it’s wearing a monocle, try again. You’re not standing at a podium in a tweed jacket. You’re a person talking to another person. If you wouldn’t say it to a friend, don’t write it for a reader.
Simplicity isn’t the enemy of brilliance; it’s the backbone of it.
(To learn how to get over the fear of public speaking and give a great presentation, click here.)
Okay, we’ve covered a lot. Let’s round it all up and learn why finished writing is always a liar…
Sum Up
Here’s how to improve your writing…
- Read Read Read: Essential. No discussion.
- The Most Important Question: “Why should anyone care?” That’s your golden ticket, right there. Because if you don’t know, your reader sure as heck won’t.
- Don’t Bury The Lede: Burying the lede is like playing hide-and-seek with someone who didn’t agree to play in the first place. You know what happens? They stop looking. They walk away and find something else to do.
- Beware “The Curse Of Knowledge”: Start where they’re at, not where you’re at. If your reader is pausing to Google three times per paragraph, you’re not a genius; you’re supremely annoying. If they wanted a headache, they’d go read Ulysses.
- Structure: Look, I know “structure” sounds like a boring high school English lesson, like grammar quizzes and diagramming sentences. But structure is the unsung hero of writing. Readers may not notice it when it’s working, but they’ll definitely notice when it’s not.
- Be Clear And Conversational: Talk like a human. Stop trying to sound like you’re addressing the UN.
Finished writing is a liar. It hides its labor. It does not show the deletions, tweaks, self-pity, or the sentence that was rewritten nineteen times. The first draft is the crime. Revision is the cover-up.
There’s a whole lot of scraping and sanding before writing looks effortless. And that means revising. Editing. The writer’s equivalent of picking through your own garbage.
Revision is what separates the hobbyists from the writers. It’s about realizing that just because a paragraph sounds nice doesn’t mean it’s good. Or necessary. Revision is where you get to look at that sentence you were so proud of and realize, “Oh God, this sounds like I wrote it while coming out of anesthesia.”
You can love a line and still need to kill it. In fact, the line you love most may be the one wearing a wire. Revision is where you admit the joke is funny but belongs in a different essay, or maybe in a text to a friend who already knows you are unwell.
David Mamet says you should look at what you wrote asking, “What happens if I take this out?” If the answer is “nothing,” then start chopping.
So you do. You edit and edit. Your keyboard has tears on it, and you’re pretty sure you’ve invented new curse words. It’s a painful process that usually ends with you curled up in the fetal position, softly singing “Everybody Hurts” by R.E.M. What now?
Keep cutting. As my friend David Epstein always reminds me, “The reader doesn’t know what you cut.” You might miss it, but they won’t. Hold a mock funeral for your sentence, say a few words, but get rid of it. It’s dead weight. Your draft will be lighter, fresher, and might actually make sense.
It takes practice. When you start on the writing journey, you’ll write sentences that are so purple, Prince would tell you to dial it back. But every once in a while you’ll write something really good.
And it hits you: this is why you do it. “Is this what it feels like to have a brain orgasm?” The answer, unequivocally, is yes. Yes, it is. And you didn’t even have to fake it.
You get that awesome feeling of having created something from nothing.
It’s a little like playing God, but with more emotional exhibitionism and less ability to smite your enemies.
