How to Succeed in Writing by Not Trying

In the beginning, we needed an outline. But now we need a new beginning. Forget the outline that middle school teacher foisted on you. Tell the reader, the listener, or the viewer what's interesting.

So you're fighting a deadline. Stop fighting. Take a deep breath. (Not a figure of speech. Literally, take a deep breath.) Now, do what your gut tells you not to do: let the message or concept or idea you want to tell people about come to you.

No time for that? You have little choice. By taking the time to craft an intro, you're saving time. (Note that verb, craft. That's precisely what you're doing.) That intro will help you organize the rest of the story, and that instant organization will help you make all your deadlines. You can start by refusing to make a big psychological deal of your apparent dilemma.

Craft an intro that feels good — this is not merely an intellectual process. It involves the heart and the gut.

Establish a dialogue with the reader. The dialogue will organize the story for you. (More on this in a moment.)

Your Job, Should You Accept It

As a writer — as a communicator — it is your job to take a slew of facts, descriptions, ideas, concepts, characters, or feelings that already are mixed together in your mind, and transfer that mixture to the mind of the person with whom you are communicating. This mixture should reach the mind of the reader, viewer, or listener exactly as it was in your head before you applied fingers to keyboard. It should look, feel, and sound just as it did when it lay unexpressed in your head. It should have the same weight.

When you deliver whatever it is — we'll call it a story — it should come across clear, crisp, and concise. It should follow the kiss principle —"keep it simple, stupid." The kiss principle has become a journalistic cliché, but it's about as appropriate as clichés ever get. And keeping it simple without insulting your readers leads to one of the biggest challenges of writing, a challenge not often well met.

We're talking about "simple," not "simplistic." One definition of simple is "Without embellishment; not ornate or adorned." The American Heritage Dictionary carries no definition of "simplistic," but it does offer one for its root noun, simplism, which is "the tendency to oversimplify an issue or problem by ignoring complexities or complications."

We Have a Point Here

The best writing can address a complicated subject and offer it in easily digested components. The writer accomplishes this task not by leaving important components out, but by using plain English dominated by its Anglo-Saxon roots. The writer simply reduces the components to bite-size, but in no way does he or she write down to the reader. To write down would be simplistic. It would treat the reader, viewer, or listener as an idiot.

This is not a new concept. A Cornell University professor, William Strunk, and a student of his, E. B. White, articulated the concept about a century ago. In The Elements of Style, Strunk and White said:

A sentence should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary sentences, for the same reason that a drawing should have no unnecessary lines and a machine no unnecessary parts. This requires not that the writer make all his sentences short or that he avoid all detail and treat his subject only in outline, but that every word tell.

The Jargon Trap

Sometimes a jargon test helps. If you use the term "writ of summons" for an audience other than lawyers, you most likely are going to have to explain what you mean. You would expect attorneys to know that a writ of summons is a legal tool that usually begins a civil action. But you wouldn't expect most readers of, say, a daily newspaper to know the term — not because they're stupid, but because they don't do legal chores every day. Why should they know the term?

Jargon isn't always bad. It provides special meanings that are appropriate when one person talks with another and they belong to the same profession. "Expenses" and "expenditures" might sound the same to a writer. But to a certified public accountant, getting them confused can guarantee a visit by someone from the Internal Revenue Service.

Jargon becomes a problem when the writer writes it for a general audience. To a general audience, jargon sounds at best unclear, at worst, pompous. When you use jargon, the reader is likely to receive messages you might not have meant to send, such as:

"I think you're stupid enough to be impressed by my use of pompous-sounding words that you obviously don't understand.

"I am a sloppy thinker, and too lazy to take the time to find words that say specifically what I mean, words that make sense to you. (Is it possible that I don't know what I mean?)

"I don't know what I'm writing about, but I can fool you into thinking I do.

"I am conning you."

The Well-Crafted Intro: For the Writer, for the Reader

For you, the writer, the intro shapes the rest of the story. It accomplishes the same task as an outline, without the bother. For the reader, though, the lede — a term many journalists use to distinguish their intro from a police clue or something that comes out of a pencil — sets up the story. It tells the reader what the story is about, summarizes the story, or entices the reader to read on. It can do all three.

For any writer, getting the audience's attention is a good thing. For a newspaper, magazine, or web writer, it's imperative, especially if the audience includes an editor or instructor.

Begin with what is interesting, noteworthy, dramatic, and captivating. Inform the reader, tease the reader, anger the reader, challenge the reader, tickle the reader, or prepare the reader for what is coming next. But don't bore the reader. Picky, these readers. If your intro bores them, they retaliate. They refuse to read the rest of what you've written.

The most commonly stated reason for writing boring intros is that the writer doesn't have time to fashion an interesting one. But you don't really have a choice. You must take the time because if you take the time, you save time.

The Time-Saving, On-Deadline Formula

Remember that dialogue you're supposed to establish with the reader? Here's how it works: You spend half your time getting the intro right. When it feels right, the intro repays you by setting up the story's organization. That means you can write it twice as quickly. How? It sets up a conversation, maybe with Mom, or your spouse, who's standing over your computer as you write.

First, craft a good strong intro. That's your first paragraph. Then, if possible, insert a direct quotation. Find a good, grabbing quote that will engage the readers. Then, let the quotation set up the dialogue. You look up and ask Mom or spouse what she needs to know next. She tells you. You answer that question, and that answer becomes your next paragraph.

You then ask, "OK, what do you need to know next?" And she tells you, and your answer becomes the next paragraph. That dialogue continues until the story is exhausted or you have reached the editor's word or space limit.

That's it. That's how you organize a story, even under deadline pressure. Especially under extreme deadline pressure. No outlining (unless the story is about three thousand words or longer); just a simple dialogue with Mom or spouse.

Now, obviously there's more to good writing. But if you absorbed nothing more than this dialogue, you can go out and use it tomorrow.

The Style Trap

First, let's talk about this thing called style, and why you shouldn't have to worry about it. Style can be as elusive as a poltergeist. That doesn't mean it doesn't exist. It's just that, when the aspiring writer tries to meet it head-on, it destroys something and then flutters away. Instead of toiling away to develop a "style," beginning writers should develop true writing skills. "Skills" is the key word. They come with practice.

Good writers and journalists concentrate on writing simply, honestly, and directly to the reader. Style develops on its own, organically. We'll take a look at that point and some others, in more detail in later chapters. But for now, here are some basic guidelines:

• Know who your audience is and write directly to it.

• Use strong nouns and verbs.

• Cut down on your use of modifiers: adjectives and adverbs.

• Avoid clichés or, as someone blithely wrote, "Avoid clichés like the plague."

• Be specific. Use color when you can; color illuminates. But illuminate with detail.

• Beware of the murkiness of passive voice. Active voice sounds more honest and usually is. Active voice cuts down on wordiness and accepts responsibility.

• Make every word count. If a word doesn't carry its own weight, get rid of it.

• When all else fails, write with energy. Convince the reader that you're convinced.

All these criteria add up the writer's dictum, "Show, don't tell." But you need to add three ingredients before your story gets molded into good writing.

First, force yourself to fall in love with your subject.

Write for the ear, even for print. It will help you join the rhythm and flow of English.

Fall in love with the language. English deserves it, and your writing will be better for it.

A Word about the English Language

Few who know and love the language would ever confuse the beauty of English with the smooth, sophisticated sound of French, the music of Spanish or Italian, or the seductive sibilance of the Slavic languages. At its base, English is a Germanic language, as are Dutch, Swedish, Danish, Norwegian, and Flemish. English shares much of German's reliance on athletic diphthongs — abrupt changes in vowel sounds in the same syllable — harsh consonants, and guttural utterances. Don't, however, make the mistake of assuming that because English carries the occasional dissonance, it is without rhythm, music, or grace.

Four qualities set English apart, even from other Germanic languages. Three of them are positive.

First, the structure of English is simpler and more direct than that of other Western languages. English provides more emphasis on active voice (in which the subject of the sentence does the action). English spends less time bothering with reflexive verbs ("He shaved himself.") and uses fewer verb tenses.

Second, English has dispensed with the need to match nouns and verbs by gender, so you don't have to know what sex a table is before you can correctly say what a table does.

Third, the English vocabulary is far greater than that of any other Indo-European language, a group that involves about one-third of the world's population. The biggest reason is that English has found room for the equivalent of two whole languages, Anglo-Saxon and Norman French, and large chunks of several others, especially Latin and Greek.

These three positive qualities derive from the fact that the language is such a mongrel. But the fourth "quality" of English, its variety of pedigree — or lack thereof — is responsible for its maddening inconsistency in spelling and verb forms. Keep in mind, though, that this inconsistency also contributes to the richness of English. Its richness is the prime source of the beauty of the language.

Bigger Does Not Always Mean Better

Each new influence on English has added richness to the language, a fact that is a curse and a boon. About half a million recent scientific, medical, and technological terms lend themselves to bad writing by swamping the language. But not counting them, English comprises more than six hundred thousand words — three or four times that of any other Western language.

Being heir to a huge vocabulary might be akin to being heir to a great fortune, though. It is most tempting, and temptingly easy, to squander it, abuse it, and create a feeling of artificial status with it. You can do that with English. The language can help you sound artificially important as few other languages can.

This progression into verbal oblivion begins by using a greater choice of words than most people can handle. Writers or teachers who are inclined to enhance their self-importance will go for the big words first. They have traded the advantage of a large vocabulary — the ability to find the precise word that conveys the precise meaning and nuance they intended — for the pomposity that big words often carry with them.

The true beauty of English is its ability to make the writer or speaker sound honest. The way the language works out, sounding honest means using short, Anglo-Saxon words and usages that form the core of the language.

English is fraught with latinizations, words that usually end in -ate, -ance, -ant, -ence, -ent, -ity, -ly, -ous, -sion, and -tion. Latinizations are not necessarily bad. They come in handy for writers striving for word precision; to find the precise word or phrase that expresses the exact idea, concept, or fact with just the right nuance. But latinizations should serve as accessories to the core language, not replacements for it.

In languages that lack the massive vocabulary of English, the writer usually is forced to derive precise meaning from context or from where the word falls in a sentence. In English, the task becomes a simple matter of selecting the exact color you want from the riotous palate available. But to accomplish that task, you need to master the vocabulary and refrain from abusing that vocabulary. And it helps if you love the language enough to enjoy playing with each usage until the message comes out precisely right.

It is the humble Germanic idiom of the Anglo-Saxon peasant that gives the language its force, its inherent power to communicate. The majestic structure that is the English language is built with many small bricks.

Good Beginnings: An Introduction

Whether they are in newspapers, magazines, or on the Internet, the first words or sentences of a story help the writer organize it. And they hold the reader's attention. For the reader, the intro sets up the story. It might introduce the subject, or it might entice the reader to read on, or both.

If the intro is important to the reader, it is critical for the writer. A well-crafted intro can help organize the story quickly and relatively effortlessly. It does so by creating that dialogue with the reader we talked about in the last chapter, the one sparked by the implicit question, "What do you need to know next?"

Notice how the following intro — what journalists call the "lede" — helps set a mood for a Chicago Tribune travel story about the pirate Blackbeard, and the North Carolina coast.

Here he was known as Mr. Thatch, a merchant from England by way of Jamaica and the Bahamas, a good friend of the colonial governor. Aye, a good friend indeed.

Some editors and teachers demand that the intro always be no more than, say, twenty-five words. Such a demand is arbitrary, and it reflects the cynical assumption that the reader doesn't have the intellectual power to handle anything greater. But the dictum does have value. It makes the point that shorter intros usually have more impact.

For the reader, the intro can summarize, provide a fact, tease, entice, or evoke. For the writer, the lede helps organize the story. You will save time, even if you are writing under deadline.

One type of intro, which editors and reporters are inclined to call a "creative lede" or a "lede that is coming-out-of-left-field," might inform the reader of nothing. But that doesn't mean it isn't effective.

He didn't know that the moment he stepped off the curb, his whole life would change.

Just because readers haven't learned anything yet doesn't mean they should feel cheated. They will learn, and they know that. In the meantime, they're eager to read on.

Few techniques work as well as the skillful application of irony. It's a great way to make instant friends with your readers. You're sharing a subtle joke with them, and you're putting a fine point on what actually happened. Take this example from The Christian Science Monitor:

ARCHBOLD, Ohio — The mayor of one of China's most exotic cities today visited the fertile flatlands of northwest Ohio to sample some products of a Chinese-American food factory. He pronounced the fare good — for American tastes.

Sometimes you can set a tone or mood by manipulating time. One way to do this is in a breaking news story for a newspaper audience. It involves something called the today angle. The use of time in an intro doesn't have to be restricted to breaking stories, though. Witness this beginning of a Reuters feature that appeared on an anniversary of the plane crash that killed three popular rock stars: Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, and J. D. Richardson (the "Big Bopper"):