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Tag: writing-tips

  • How to Write for an Audience That Doesn’t Care

    Most people don’t give a flying fuck about what you’re saying.

    They don’t care about your clever metaphor. They don’t care about your painstakingly polished headline. They don’t care that you bled existential angst all over your Google Doc at 2 a.m.

    Why? Because people are busy. Because people are selfish. Because people are drowning in an endless tsunami of content, from clickbait listicles about “10 Ways to Optimize Your Morning Smoothie” to TikTok dances about depression.

    So, if you’re sitting there wondering, “How do I make people care about my writing?”, let me stop you. You can’t.

    At least, not directly. What you can do is hack into their reality, make yourself useful, and slap them in the face with something so raw, so honest, or so goddamn entertaining that ignoring you feels impossible.

    Welcome to writing for an audience that doesn’t care.

    Step 1: Stop Begging for Attention

    Readers smell desperation like a bloodhound. The moment you try too hard — stuffing your opening with buzzwords, fake urgency, or inspirational quotes ripped from Pinterest, you’re toast.

    People don’t respect writers who beg. They respect writers who demand attention by earning it.

    And earning attention doesn’t mean yelling louder; it means saying something so relevant to their lives that they can’t look away. Write about the fight they had with their partner this morning. Write about the coworker who eats fish in the office microwave. Write about that quiet, guilty urge to delete Instagram but being too scared of FOMO.

    Start there. That’s where people live.

    Step 2: Cut the Crap

    Here’s the thing: no one has time. Attention spans are shorter than a fruit fly on cocaine. If your first paragraph reads like a high school essay on “The Economic Impact of the Industrial Revolution,” you’re screwed.

    Delete your fluff. Kill your corporate jargon. Write like you’re talking to your slightly drunk best friend at a bar.

    Here’s a simple test: if you wouldn’t actually say the sentence out loud to someone you respect, delete it.

    Step 3: Be Useful or Be Entertaining (Preferably Both)

    People don’t wake up thinking, “I wonder what this stranger on the internet has to say about leadership principles?”

    They wake up thinking: “Shit, I’m late.” “Why did I send that drunk text?” “How do I get out of this pointless meeting without pissing off my boss?”

    So if your writing doesn’t give them one of two things — a way to make their life less miserable, or a reason to laugh about it, they’ll scroll on.

    This is the golden rule of writing: be useful or be entertaining. Ideally both.

    Think about the content you love. It’s the blog that shows you how to manage your finances without making you feel like a failed adult. It’s the essay that punches you in the gut with truth but also makes you chuckle halfway through. That’s the sweet spot.

    Step 4: Accept That Most People Won’t Care

    Here’s the kicker: even if you’re brilliant, even if you’re funny, even if you write like Hemingway and Jerry Seinfeld had a lovechild, most readers still won’t care.

    They’ll skim. They’ll click away. They’ll forget you ever existed.

    And that’s fine.

    Writing is not about winning everyone. It’s about finding your people — the weird, wonderful, specific sliver of humanity who reads your words and thinks, “Holy shit, this is exactly what I needed.”

    You don’t need millions of readers. You need the right few thousand. Or even the right few hundred. Or hell, maybe just ten, if those ten matter enough.

    Step 5: Write Like You Don’t Care Either

    Here’s the paradox: the less you care about pleasing everyone, the more powerful your writing becomes.

    When you stop trying to look smart, you actually sound smart. When you stop filtering yourself through what “the audience” might think, you actually come across as human.

    Swear if you want. Use weird metaphors. Tell the embarrassing story about the time you bombed your first job interview. Don’t hide behind “professional” language that makes you sound like ChatGPT with a tie.

    The internet is allergic to bullshit, but it’s addicted to honesty.

    The Brutal Truth

    Writing for an audience that doesn’t care is like doing stand-up in a bar where everyone’s drunk, hungry, and half the crowd is facing the wrong way.

    You can’t control the room. But you can sharpen your jokes. You can get louder, clearer, braver. You can throw yourself into the chaos and say, “Fuck it, here’s my truth.”

    And sometimes — against all odds, someone in that crowd will look up from their beer, laugh, and actually listen.

    That’s the game. That’s all it ever is.

    Because the world doesn’t need more content. It doesn’t need more “thought leaders.” It doesn’t even need more writers.

    It needs more people willing to tell the damn truth — even when nobody’s paying attention.

  • The 3 Kinds of Writers (And Why You’re Probably All Three)

    Here’s a dirty little secret about writing: no one really knows what the hell they’re doing. Every writer is just making it up as they go, hoping they don’t look like a complete idiot in the process.

    But over time, you start to notice patterns in yourself. The different “modes” you slip into when you sit down with a blank page and a blinking cursor. And after years of watching writers torture themselves—including myself—I’ve realized there are three kinds of writers.

    And the punchline? You’re probably all three.

    1. The Vomit Draft Writer (a.k.a. The Unhinged Maniac)

    This writer is all adrenaline and panic. They don’t stop to think, they don’t stop to breathe, they just puke words all over the page like their brain is trying to sprint out of their skull.

    The Vomit Draft Writer doesn’t care about grammar. They don’t care if the paragraph makes sense. Hell, they don’t care if you can even read it. All they care about is getting it out before the thought evaporates into the abyss.

    They’ll write sentences like, “The thing about things is that the thing is basically a thing and holy shit coffee is kicking in oh my god I’m a genius.”

    Spoiler: you’re not a genius. But you are making progress.

    Because here’s the truth, every brilliant essay, every moving novel, every “holy shit, that line changed my life” quote… started as an incoherent mess in someone’s notebook. The Vomit Draft Writer is the only part of you that actually creates. They’re messy, but they get the job done. Without them, you’ll be staring at a blank page forever.

    2. The Perfectionist Writer (a.k.a. The Neurotic Editor Who Hates Everything)

    Then there’s the opposite side of you—the Perfectionist Writer. This bastard hates everything you do. They look at the vomit draft and go, What kind of illiterate monkey wrote this trash? Oh right, me.

    This writer obsesses over every comma, every turn of phrase. They’ll spend 45 minutes agonizing over whether to use “but” or “however.” They’ll rewrite a sentence twelve times, then delete it entirely, then bring it back at 2 a.m.

    The Perfectionist is ruthless. They don’t care about fun, they don’t care about flow, they care about not embarrassing themselves in public.

    And as much as it feels like they’re a sadistic little goblin living in your head, the Perfectionist is necessary. They take the pile of incoherent nonsense from the Vomit Draft Writer and shape it into something someone else might actually read without losing brain cells.

    But here’s the problem: if you let the Perfectionist run the show, you’ll never finish anything. You’ll polish and polish and polish until you’ve sanded all the soul out of your writing. You’ll end up with prose so clean it feels like it was written by a tax attorney.

    3. The Bullshit Artist (a.k.a. The Smooth Talker)

    And then… there’s the Bullshit Artist.

    The Bullshit Artist is the part of you that knows how to make things sound good—even if they’re not. They’re the one who drops poetic metaphors about sunsets and broken hearts, who can make a mundane story about buying milk sound like a spiritual journey.

    They write the punchy one-liners. The quotable stuff. The crap people highlight in books and post on Instagram with an inspirational background.

    Sometimes they’re brilliant. Sometimes they’re just spewing nonsense. (“Life is like a sandwich. No matter which way you flip it, the bread comes first.” Yeah, okay, calm down, Plato.)

    The Bullshit Artist is dangerous because they’re seductive. They make you feel like you’re writing something profound, even if you’re actually saying absolutely nothing.

    But they’re also vital. Because without a little flair, your writing is boring. And boring is death. Nobody wants to read an essay that feels like IKEA instructions for the soul.

    Why You’re All Three

    Now here’s the kicker: good writing is impossible without all three of these weird little personalities.

    • The Vomit Draft Writer produces raw material—chaotic, sloppy, but essential.
    • The Perfectionist fixes it, trims it, makes it coherent.
    • The Bullshit Artist makes it pop, gives it rhythm, and makes sure people actually give a damn.

    Take one away and your writing collapses.

    Too much vomit? Your work is a confusing mess.
    Too much perfectionism? Your writing feels sterile and lifeless.
    Too much bullshit? It’s fluff, pretty words with no depth.

    Great writing isn’t about choosing which writer you are, it’s about knowing which one to let speak, and when to tell the others to shut the hell up.

    The Real Struggle of Writing

    See, the real battle isn’t “finding your voice.” It’s referee-ing the chaos inside your own head.

    You’ll start writing and the Vomit Draft Writer will run wild, then the Perfectionist barges in with their red pen, screaming that everything sucks. Then the Bullshit Artist shows up drunk, spouting metaphors about wolves and moons that make zero sense.

    And somehow, you’re supposed to juggle all of this into something coherent.

    Writing isn’t about being one kind of writer, it’s about surviving the war in your brain long enough to hit publish.

    So, next time you’re stuck, ask yourself:

    • Do I need to just vomit this out?
    • Do I need to edit like a psychopath?
    • Or do I need to sprinkle some bullshit magic on top?

    Chances are, the answer is yes. To all three.

  • From Notes to Newsletter: Writing for the Internet

    Writing for the internet is weird.

    You start with a thought, a deep, maybe even profound idea, jot it down in your notes app, and suddenly you’re spiraling into a Google doc wondering if this is “valuable content” or just digital diarrhea.

    Then comes the existential panic:
    “Should I use bullet points?”
    “Will this go viral?”
    “Is anyone even reading this sh*t?”

    If you’ve ever gone from notebook scribbles to Substack drafts to obsessively refreshing open rates like it’s crypto in 2021, welcome. You’re not alone.

    The Internet Is a Drunk, Distracted Toddler

    The first thing to understand: the internet does not give a flying f*ck about your writing, unless you make it care.

    People are doomscrolling, juggling dopamine hits from memes, texts, and cat videos. So if you want your newsletter to survive, your writing needs to do three things:

    1. Smack readers in the face (metaphorically)
    2. Speak human, not corporate drone
    3. Give a damn about what they give a damn about

    No one’s waiting for your epic essay on “emotional resilience.” But if you start with:

    “I cried in the shower after sending my 47th cold email.”
    Now you’ve got their attention.

    Notes Are Raw. Newsletters Are Cooked (Ideally)

    Your notes app is the unfiltered brain dump, like a drunken conversation with your future self.
    But turning that into a newsletter? That’s cooking a meal.

    And just like cooking, you need:

    • A main idea (your protein)
    • A bit of structure (your seasoning)
    • And most importantly, a sense of who the hell you’re feeding

    If you write like a TED Talk hostage, people click away.
    If you write like a real person with a real story and real stakes?
    People stick around. And maybe even hit “subscribe.”

    Forget Perfection. Embrace Punch

    Trying to sound smart on the internet is like wearing a tux to a bar fight. Not only will you lose, everyone will hate you while it happens.

    Instead:

    • Write like you’re texting a friend.
    • Cut the fluff. (No one cares about your “deep dive” unless it’s deep and human.)
    • Lead with your scars, not your resume.

    People don’t want gurus. They want real. The awkward, uncertain, “WTF am I doing” parts. That’s where trust lives.

    Call to Action? More Like Call to Care

    Don’t end your newsletter begging people to “Like and Share.”
    End it by giving them something that lingers in their brain longer than their morning coffee.

    Ask them something. Challenge something. Flip a script.

    “If you’re feeling behind, maybe the timeline you’re following wasn’t yours to begin with.”
    That’ll do more than 17 bullet points on time-blocking ever could.

    TL;DR (Because of Course)

    • Start messy, edit with intent.
    • Be real, not robotic.
    • Talk to people, not at them.
    • Write like your words matter, because they might.

    Final Thought:

    The internet is noisy, sure. But it’s also full of humans craving something real. If your writing can cut through the crap and speak from the heart, then congratulations, you’re not just writing a newsletter.

    You’re starting a conversation that might actually matter.

    And that’s kind of the whole point, isn’t it?

  • How to Write Compelling Fiction: Techniques from Master Storytellers

    By Someone Who’s Written a Lot of Fiction and Made a Lot of Mistakes

    Writing fiction isn’t about being the next Tolkien, Rowling, or that weird guy at your local writing group who swears he’s “basically done” with his 12-book epic fantasy saga.

    It’s about telling a damn good story. One that makes readers feel, think, and maybe even stay up way too late reading because “just one more chapter” turned into “oh crap, it’s 3 a.m.”

    So, how do the greats do it? What dark sorcery turns words into worlds, and characters into friends (or enemies) we remember for life?

    Here’s the real deal, no fluff, no BS, just what works, straight from master storytellers and filtered through a lens of brutal honesty.

    1. Characters First, Plot Second. Always.

    If your story is just “cool stuff happens” with no one to care about, congratulations. You’ve written a mediocre Marvel movie.

    The best stories don’t start with a plot. They start with people. Broken, brave, lovable, hateable people. We connect with stories because of character arcs, not car chases.

    Pro tip: Ask yourself: What does your character want? What’s stopping them? How will they change by the end? If you can’t answer that, don’t bother outlining chapter 12 yet.

    2. Conflict is King.

    You know what’s boring? A story where everything goes according to plan.

    Real life is messy. Great fiction is messier. Whether it’s internal (self-doubt, guilt, ambition) or external (war, zombies, exes), conflict drives emotion. Emotion drives engagement. Engagement drives not putting the book down.

    Great storytellers put their characters in impossible situations. Then they make things worse.

    3. Show, Don’t Tell, But Also, Don’t Be a Snob About It.

    Yes, “show, don’t tell” is solid advice. But sometimes, telling is faster. Cleaner. More impactful. Hemingway did it. So can you, if you don’t overdo it.

    But when does it matter? When your character is spiralling into despair or discovering love, or murdering their boss? Show that crap. Let us feel it. Make the reader see, hear, and taste the moment.

    4. Dialogue That Doesn’t Suck

    Bad dialogue sounds like a Shakespeare play got run over by a thesaurus. Good dialogue sounds like real people, just a little snappier.

    Read your dialogue out loud. If it sounds like two robots fighting over grammar rules, rewrite it.

    Also: subtext. Great dialogue isn’t just what’s said, it’s what’s not said.

    5. Pace Like a Netflix Series

    The modern reader has the attention span of a squirrel on Red Bull. Cut the fluff. Start the story in motion, preferably with a problem. Build tension. Vary the rhythm. Think like a screenwriter.

    Chapters are episodes. Each one needs a hook and a reason to keep going.

    6. Voice is Everything

    Plot? Recyclable. Tropes? Inevitable. What makes your story unforgettable is you, your voice, your perspective, your weird obsessions with morally grey villains or cinnamon rolls who cry once per book.

    Master storytellers don’t just write stories. They stamp their personality into every line. Be bold. Be weird. Be you.

    7. Rewrite Like a Maniac

    Your first draft will suck. That’s the law. The difference between amateur and pro is who rewrites it until it doesn’t.

    Master storytellers are ruthless editors. They delete their darlings. They kill scenes that don’t move the story. They sharpen every sentence like a blade.

    TL;DR:

    Writing compelling fiction isn’t magic. It’s brutal honesty with yourself. It’s empathy for your characters. It’s knowing when to break the rules and when to set them on fire.

    So go write. Suck a little less each time. And someday, someone will stay up way too late with your story, whispering, “just one more chapter.”

    That’s when you’ll know you did it right.

  • How Writing Can Help You Build Your Personal Brand

    How to Stop Being Just Another Face in the LinkedIn Feed

    Let’s be real: shouting “I’m passionate about leadership!” into the void isn’t personal branding, it’s digital wallpaper. And we all scroll past that crap.

    In 2025, attention is currency, and writing is one of the few ways to earn it without selling your soul (or posting gym selfies with “grindset” captions). Whether it’s tweets, blogs, newsletters, or even a whole-ass book, writing is how you show the world who you are, what you stand for, and, most importantly, why they should give a damn.

    Here’s how to stop hiding behind your resume and start building a personal brand that actually sticks.

    1. Writing Makes You Think and Thinking Is Sexy

    Most people don’t actually know what they believe. They just parrot stuff from LinkedIn influencers with ring lights.

    But writing forces you to figure your sh*t out. It makes you sit with your ideas, question your assumptions, and find your voice, or at least something less robotic than “Results-driven professional with 10+ years of experience.”

    You can’t fake insight forever. Writing regularly helps you sound smarter because it makes you smarter. Bonus: People love reading something that doesn’t feel like it was generated by a fridge magnet.

    2. People Buy People, Not Job Titles

    Your job title? No one cares. Your experience? Meh. But if you write about your failures, your ideas, your weird obsession with productivity hacks, people remember that. They see you as more than a CV. They see a person.

    Writing lets you show, not just tell. You’re not a “consultant”; you’re someone who solves actual problems and shares insights that make people’s lives easier. You’re not a “coach”; you’re the one writing posts that make people go, “Holy crap, this guy gets it.”

    People don’t follow roles, they follow stories.

    3. Content Compounds. Silence Doesn’t.

    Writing is the gym of personal branding. You don’t go viral on Day One. But with consistency? You build something. It compounds. A blog post turns into a newsletter. A newsletter turns into speaking gigs. Speaking gigs turn into clients, courses, hell, maybe even a book deal.

    Meanwhile, silence gets you exactly zero.

    If you’re afraid to hit “post” because “it’s not perfect,” congrats, you’re human. But perfection isn’t the goal. Clarity is. And the only way to get clear is to write. Over and over again.

    4. Writing Is a Filter, Not Just a Magnet

    Good writing doesn’t attract everyone. It repels the wrong people and draws in the right ones.

    When you write like yourself, quirks, humour, hot takes and all, you make it easier for people to say, “Hell yes” or “Hell no.” Both are wins. Because bland brands don’t build trust. They build boredom.

    Own your voice. If you’re sarcastic, be sarcastic. If you’re nerdy, go full nerd. Don’t write to impress. Write to connect. That’s where the magic happens.

    5. It’s Free AF, and More Powerful Than Ads

    You don’t need a PR team or a marketing funnel to write. Just fingers, a keyboard, and something to say. The ROI? Ridiculous.

    One solid blog post can get shared for years. One viral LinkedIn post can land you a job, a client, or a TEDx invite. One Medium article can turn into a book. This is how personal brands get built, not overnight, but one idea at a time.

    So if you’ve been waiting for permission, here it is: start writing.

    How to Start (Without Hating Yourself)

    • Pick your playground. Twitter, LinkedIn, Medium, Substack, doesn’t matter. Pick one and show up.
    • Talk like a human. Write how you speak. No corporate mumbo jumbo. No “Dear network” nonsense.
    • Be consistent-ish. Once a week is enough. The goal is rhythm, not burnout.
    • Tell real stories. Wins are fine, but struggles are better. Vulnerability builds trust faster than buzzwords.
    • Have an opinion. Don’t just regurgitate trends. Add something to the conversation.

    Final Thought: Your Voice Is Your Brand

    You don’t need to be the smartest. Or the funniest. Or the most experienced. You just need to be you, clearly, consistently, and unapologetically.

    Writing is how you package that you-ness and ship it to the world. So stop waiting. Start typing. Hit publish.

    And let the brand build itself.