Good Writing Key Takeaways

Strong verbs replace weak, imprecise ones to add energy and clarity.

A vivid verb can reshape your sentence structure, breaking monotony.

Specific verbs eliminate the need for most adverbs.

Avoid the trap of over-glorifying action; don't make every victory a massacre.

The best verbs are precise enough that the reader sees the action without explanation.

“To be” and “to have” freeze a sentence in place; they signal identity or possession, not action.

Replace them with verbs that show process, change, or sensory detail whenever possible.

Exceptions: auxiliary uses (particularly for progressive tense) and authoritative declarative statements.

Challenge yourself to spot every instance of these “barely verbs” during revision—and transform them into language that moves.

Favor active voice, but recognize that passive voice can be superior for emphasis, dramatic effect, or wry tone.

Watch for -ed, -en, and -ing endings that may flatten your prose; ask whether flipping the sentence would add energy.

Trust your ear, but use the rule as a pointer: if you spot a passive construction, consider whether the object of the sentence deserves the spotlight.

Passive works when you want to center the recipient of an action (victims, the universe) rather than the doer.

-ing verbs, while not technically passive, often create distance or a singsong rhythm; tightening them can increase tension and immediacy.

“Said” is a functional word; readers register who spoke, not the verb itself.

Synonyms like “claimed” or “argued” introduce author bias—use them deliberately, not as fillers.

Avoid adverbs after attributions; let the dialogue show the tone.

Reserve colorful attributions (“whispered,” “mumbled”) for moments where they add real meaning.

A long stretch of “said” is okay; a desperate synonym is worse.

Choose Anglo-Saxon words over Latinate ones when possible: “crash” over “collision,” “hurl” over “propel,” “smelly” over “malodorous.”

Concrete, physical language engages the body and emotions, not just the intellect.

Avoid political or academic jargon that distances the reader.

Borges’ trick: when two synonyms exist, pick the one that feels more immediate for the sentence.

Never use a word that forces a reader to stop and look it up—unless the payoff is worth the pause.

Formal, literary language creates distance between the reader and the story—trust is better built with conversational, natural speech.

Use a code like "maybe a bit much?" to catch when you're slipping into flamboyant or stiff phrasing.

Exceptions exist (historical fiction, political speeches) but they require deliberate choice, not default.

Character-driven narration demands voice consistency—formal abstraction kills individual personality.

The writer's goal is absorption, not admiration; let the story carry the weight, not the style.

Your writing voice is discovered, not invented—stop imitating and start riffing.

Identify your dominant musical element (melody, rhythm, or harmony) and lean into it.

Don’t force metaphors or styles that aren’t yours; an imperfect attempt is worse than none.

Read your work aloud to test rhythm and flow—commas and pauses are your tools.

Embrace your quirks; they’re what make your voice unique and worth reading.

Eliminate “then,” “when,” “meanwhile,” and similar transitions unless a genuine gap in time or logic exists.

Readers infer sequence and causality naturally—don’t overexplain.

Replace abstract time markers with vivid, concrete changes (weather, growth, objects, seasons).

Delete every instance of “actually.” It’s a meaningless verbal tic.

Test every transitional phrase: does the story’s momentum already carry the reader? If yes, cut it.

Use semicolons to link two complete, closely related sentences where one logically follows or complements the other.

The semicolon creates a “sliding pause” that reinforces connection without a transitional word.

It works best when the two sentences are “cousin thoughts”—related but each complete on its own.

You don’t have to use semicolons if they feel unnatural, but don’t avoid them out of grammatical snobbery.

Writing is about creating a vivid, continuous dream for the reader; flexible grammar can serve that goal.

Delete “very” and similar crutch words like “really,” “basically,” “some,” and “important.” They weaken, not strengthen.

Replace with precise, vivid words when the base word isn’t strong enough (e.g., “exhausted” not “very tired”).

Use the “damn” trick from William Allen White to break the habit.

Beware of “important” —it’s often just “important to me” and loses authority.

Do a word search on your first draft to strip out nearly every “very.” The exceptions are rare and usually not worth keeping.

Look for strings of short words (prepositions, pronouns, connectors) and ask if each one earns its place.

Replace "of" chains with possessives when possible.

Eliminate redundant qualifiers and empty synonyms like "in order to."

Be suspicious of conversational padding like "meet up with" or "as a matter of fact."

Treat your sentences like a room: uncram them until they feel light and clear.

Adorn "this" with a noun immediately after it to avoid ambiguity (e.g., not "This was hard," but "This puzzle was hard").

Apply the same rule to "it" and other pronouns when their referent isn't painfully obvious.

Great writers can break the rule (Austen, Orwell) by creating suspense with a delayed referent, but most of us should default to clarity.

Ask "This what?" or "Which it?" as a habit—it often leads to a more vivid, specific sentence.

Overusing "just" is a similar lazy crutch; cut it when you can.

The ultimate goal: keep readers reading, not decoding.

Remove excess logical explanation; your reader can fill many gaps.

Use hinting, foreshadowing, and misdirection instead of telegraphing.

Skipping the middle term of a logical argument (enthymeme) is often fine.

Cut at least a third of your descriptions and editorializing.

In nonfiction, consider cutting lies that don’t serve the truth—except a few you can’t bear to part with.

Avoid repeating distinctive words quickly; let novelty linger.

Use bridging (intentional repetition) for rhythm and hypnosis.

Overused or pretentious words ("bloom," "liminal") usually backfire.

Always have a fresh pair of eyes catch your unconscious repeats.

Etymology makes abstract concepts tangible; knowing that “truth” means “tree” can generate fresh imagery.

Three near-synonyms for a desired state—satisfaction, equanimity, contentment—reveal distinct physical origins (fullness, breath, expansiveness) that can inspire character work.

The word “writing” originated as “carving” or “tearing,” and “create” as “to grow”—a reminder that writing is both destructive and generative.

Investigating a word’s history can reframe personal struggles or open new creative paths, as Abigail Thomas’s discovery about “acceptance” shows.

The perfect word is both precise and unnoticeable; if it draws attention to itself, it’s wrong.

Use a thesaurus to find the right common word, not to dig up obscure ones that will make you sound pretentious.

One wrong word can destroy reader trust—test your choices with the same sensitivity you’d use in conversation.

When you can’t find the word, change the sentence structure rather than stretch a synonym.

Personal voice matters: the right word for you might not be the right word for someone else, and sometimes you have to fight for it.

Metaphor is not just a literary device but a fundamental mode of thinking and speaking.

Strong verbs often carry their own hidden metaphors; use them instead of forcing explicit comparisons.

Bad metaphors stick out and undermine the sentence; test every one for naturalness.

A successful metaphor enhances its environment; a forced one should be removed.

The best metaphors feel inevitable, as if the thought could only be expressed that way.

Use clichés as starting points, not endpoints; twist them to create surprise.

A familiar phrase with a small mutation (e.g., “good as brass, barely”) can feel more alive than an entirely original line.

Unknown or obscure clichés (like “happy as a sandboy”) can be used as-is because most readers won’t recognize them as clichés.

Let first drafts be cliché-filled; they’re scaffolding, not the finished building.

The enemy is momentum loss—do whatever it takes to keep writing, even if it means leaning on a tired phrase temporarily.

The rule of threes satisfies our ear for rhythm, creating a natural sense of completion and emphasis.

Two-item lists can be equally powerful, adding suspense or openness where a third would feel too tidy.

Read your work aloud to hear the beat; let your voice guide your choice, not a rigid rule.

Your voice has quirks—honor them. What works for one writer may not work for another, and that’s the point.

Long sentences need linear momentum, not backtracking curlicues.

Every long sentence must deliver a payoff that justifies the ride.

Great writers can break the rules, but most of us should aim for clarity and propulsion.

The best long sentences feel like a natural stream of thought, not an intellectual stunt.

Use short sentences sparingly but deliberately, like a drum hit or a pause button.

Long, flowing prose gains power when it’s bookended by something abrupt.

The most profound statements are often the briefest—two words can hold a universe.

Short sentences work best when they feel earned, not tricksy. Keep practicing until it feels natural.

The end of a sentence is its most powerful position; place your strongest word or image there.

Push verbs close to the period for immediacy and energy.

If the ending can't be strong, make the beginning strong instead.

Treat every sentence as a miniature composition: rearrange words until the final beat feels right.

Aim for clean, decisive endings—not grandiosity. Precision beats noise every time.

Dialogue is crystallized thinking: every line should reveal choices, not just personality.

Cut hellos, goodbyes, and gossip unless they serve a purpose.

Speech patterns must be consistent: introverts, jokers, grunters all have signature starts.

Balance dialogue with action and interior monologue to avoid reader fatigue.

Use the situation-complication-resolution arc to fuel conflict through conversation.

In nonfiction, replace direct quotes with inferential details of reaction.

Record your dialogue aloud to catch false notes before sharing.

Distinguish characters by age, culture, education, and temperament, not just by name.

Study masters of dialogue—in novels and in screenplays—to internalize rhythm and authenticity.

Archetype your characters below stereotypes to avoid blurring and keep them psychologically consistent.

Early drafts produce a “bodyguard” exterior; later drafts reveal the contradictory, hidden interior.

Use Jungian systems (Myers-Briggs, enneagram) to map hidden fears, motivations, and behavioral traits.

Internal specialness requires attention in every scene, not just a one-line physical description.

Write from your own multifaceted self—your characters are aspects of you, and that authenticity draws readers in.

“Show, don’t tell” is not a universal law; start with concrete action, then add commentary.

Fitzgerald used telling at the end of Gatsby to transform a story into a moral tragedy.

Riffing on abstractions after showing action deepens meaning and mirrors how we think.

Telling can be more efficient than showing—use it to skip tedium, give essential info, or create empathy.

The only rule is what works for the reader; show, then tell, in whatever rhythm the story demands.

Within the first page of your protagonist’s appearance, have another character offer a compliment or signal of likeability.

A likable protagonist is the single most important element of a novel—more than plot, setting, or theme.

Readers will forgive terrible mistakes if they enjoy spending time with the character.

Flawed characters can be lovable: the trick is to plant an early seed of affection, so readers root for them even when they’re a wreck.

Make your first character description definitive. One concise paragraph should establish appearance and psychological foreshadowing, and then you’re done unless a specific trait becomes plot-critical.

Revise that paragraph relentlessly. It carries the weight of first impressions, so every sentence needs to earn its place.

Treat every described detail as a clue. Readers will subconsciously expect unusual features to matter later (Chekhov’s gun), so choose them deliberately.

Anne’s counterpoint: repetition can be kindness. Especially in complex novels with many characters, subtle reminders of key relationships or backstory help readers. Check with your writing group to find the sweet spot between over-explaining and leaving them lost.

Sight dominates most early drafts; intentionally add the other four senses.

Smell and taste are particularly potent memory triggers—Proust’s madeleine is the classic example.

Make a separate revision pass focused only on sensory details to break the visual habit.

Physical experiences (touching objects, sniffing the air) can unlock fresh language for your writing.

The best sensory writing grounds the reader and sparks imagination at the same time—it “spritzes you awake.”

Remove verbs of consciousness (thought, felt, wondered, believed) to make characters less self-aware and the writing more immediate.

Direct statements and questions are stronger than filtered reflections; “She is right” beats “He thought she was right.”

In dialogue, skip “I think” or “I feel”—let the character’s words stand as action.

Exceptions exist for metafiction, memoir, and intentional self-reflection, but use them deliberately and sparingly.

Final drafts benefit from a focused pass to cut filtering words, but keep the ones that serve your story’s rhythm and natural voice.

Readers instinctively fill in missing character details, backstory, and emotional traits—use this as a tool, not a crutch.

Clichéd shortcuts (like dead parents in a car wreck) signal laziness and strip your story of depth.

Trust your reader, but give them something worth building on: specific, evocative details that spark their imagination rather than generic blanks.

Every sentence should serve at least two or three of the eight purposes: meaning, plotting, character, diction, rhythm, harmony, color, and seamlessness.

Revision is where layering happens: after writing a sentence, ask if it can be more rhythmic, more sensory, more psychologically astute, or more tightly tied to plot.

The difference between ordinary and literary writing isn’t a genre boundary—it’s a choice to make each sentence worth rereading.

Even a short personal anecdote can demonstrate the method: start with a strong core sentence, then layer in concrete details, emotional beats, and forward momentum.

Nothing is off-limits. The subjects that stump you first are exactly the ones worth pursuing.

Syntactic failure is a signal. If it’s hard to write, it’s probably worth writing.

Simplicity is not a cheat. Obvious truths about human behavior—protecting children, sensing possibility—anchor scenes and make them resonate.

Follow your characters into mystery. Whether you write fiction or nonfiction, don’t stop at objective distance; go where the irrational and ineffable lead.

Start badly, then refine. A terrible first draft is a necessary step toward capturing the stuff that matters. Talk to non-writer friends for fresh language and perspective.

Master a rule completely before you consider breaking it; understand why it works first.

Breaking a rule often means switching to a different legitimate framework (fiction vs. exposition, narrative vs. instruction).

Know your audience and purpose—practical writing needs clarity; creative writing needs the texture of consciousness.

The one rule you cannot break: do not confuse or lose your reader early on. Clarity and engagement come first.

Completion is your only job; quality and sales are someone else’s problem until later.

The inner critic’s fear of failure is the real obstacle—not your talent or the project’s difficulty.

Endings must feel inevitable and gratifying; avoid deus ex machina and rushed resolutions.

Finishing a bad draft is better than abandoning it—it weakens perfectionism and clarifies your true vision.

Readers want to stay in the company of a trustworthy guide, even if the story is ambiguous.

A talented editor is not a threat but a savior, filling blind spots you can't see and making your strengths consistent.

The best editorial relationship is built on mutual trust and a shared vocabulary for what makes sentences work.

Untalented editors do more harm than good; invest time to find a serious editor who respects your voice.

The rules of good writing are universal and survive changes in media; they apply to speech, podcasts, and all forms of communication.

Anne's three-draft method (shitty, tighter, dental) shows how to apply the rules progressively without bogging down in perfectionism early on.

Editing is a collaborative, sometimes humbling process, but it yields the deep satisfaction of producing work that is cleaner, richer, and more truthful.