3 things my dog taught me about writing clearly
That’s her. That’s Penelope, our five-pound stick of dynamite.
Penelope wears many hats. Kiss giver, Head of Security, Head of Crumb Collection. You name it. Whatever you need, call her up. She’s your girl.
But in her own fabulous way, she’s also my writing coach.
Here are three things that she’s taught me about writing clearly.
1. Be picky.
Penelope knows what she wants.
When she gets to pick a treat from the bag, she passes on beef and pork for the lamb. Always.
When she wants to play, she digs through her toy basket until she finds the toy that she wants to play with and then stares at you with it in her mouth. Always.
That’s how I am with words.
When I want to write, I sit at my laptop. Always.
When I want inspiration for writing, I read Anthony Bourdain, Cormac McCarthy, Truman Capote, or great copywriting. Always.
But when I write, I’m picky.
I want strong verbs. I want brevity. I want the Oxford comma.
I don’t want adverbs. I don’t want cliches. I don’t want to dangle the modifier.
And it’s this pickiness that helps me write clearly.
It gives me standards. It gives me my voice. It gives me the confidence that Penelope has always had.
2. Be playful but within reason.
Penelope loves to play. So much so that we call her Nitro Nellie.
She chases leaves that glide across the ground, barks at the broom when we sweep, and brings the ball back when we toss it across the living room.
But when she’s had enough, she’s had enough.
After awhile, another leaf glides by, and she just watches it. We keep sweeping, and she just walks away. We toss the ball, and she just lies down.
She’s playful but within reason. She’s wild but with boundaries.
The same goes for clear writing.
It’s okay to get creative and to have fun with words. It’s part of the joy of writing to find whatever expresses your thoughts the right way.
But you also need boundaries.
That’s because your writing suffers if you get too wild with it.
It becomes redundant. You write “at this point in time” without realizing that all points are in time.
It becomes wordy. You write “I am of the opinion that” without realizing that you can just say, “I think.”
And it becomes prone to logical fallacies. You write that “no true American would eat pizza with a fork” and that “all athletes are cocky” without actually thinking through your claims.
And like Penelope with the leaves, you’ll soon find that it’s not worth the chase.
3. Be smart.
Penelope is smart.
And I don’t mean hey-look-at-this-picture-of-my-kid-doing-her-math-homework smart.
I mean, she’s really smart.
She takes her time as if she’s researching the problem, looks at me and my wife as if she’s getting our opinion, and remembers what she did so that she can do it again the next time.
And that’s exactly what clear writing demands.
It demands research, because without research, I can’t know what I’m talking about.
It demands input from others, because without input, I don’t know if I’ve written nonsense.
And it demands memory, because without memory, I can’t be consistent.
Staying smart as a writer ultimately means making good writing decisions and doing things that ensure success.
If you write emails, use subject lines that readers can’t not click on.
If you write copy, use emotion that yanks on those heart strings.
If you write manuals, use the second-person “you” so that you don’t sound like a robot.
If you write anything at all, be smart. Find what makes you successful, and keep doing it.
Just . . . be Penelope.
