How To Write Readable (Without Being Lucky)

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Every day, millions of words get published online.

Most of them suck…

Most of them die a quiet death in some forgotten corner of the internet, unread and unloved.

And the writers blame algorithms, timing, Mercury retrograde, or whatever excuse helps them sleep at night.

Here’s the uncomfortable truth… readable writing isn’t about luck.

It’s not about having some magical gift bestowed upon you at birth. It’s not about following secret formulas that only the chosen few understand.

It’s about giving a shit. It’s about respecting your reader’s time and attention enough to make your writing worth reading.

I’ve spent over a decade writing online. I’ve published millions of words, some read by millions of people, others read by practically nobody.

The difference between what worked and what didn’t has little to do with luck and everything to do with clarity, honesty, and a willingness to kill my darlings.

This read isn’t about writing pretty sentences. It’s about writing sentences that people actually want to read.

F*ck fancy words that nobody understands

Do you know what impresses absolutely nobody?

Your vocabulary. That’s right.

Nobody gives a flying fuck that you know the word “pulchritudinous” instead of just saying “beautiful.”

Nobody is sitting at home thinking, “Wow, this writer used ‘plethora’ instead of ‘a lot’ — I should definitely subscribe to their newsletter!”

The most successful writing in the world — the stuff that actually gets read shared and remembered — uses simple language to express complex ideas, not complex language to express simple ideas.

Ernest Hemingway didn’t write with a thesaurus in his lap. Neither did George Orwell. Neither should you.

When you use unnecessarily complicated language, you’re not showing how smart you are.

You’re showing how insecure you are. You’re essentially saying,“I don’t trust my ideas to stand on their own merit, so I’m dressing them up in fancy clothes.”

Here’s a radical idea:

• What if you trusted your readers enough to meet them where they are?

• What if you respected their time enough to get to the fucking point?

• What if clarity was your primary goal, not displaying your impressive vocabulary?

Next time you’re tempted to use a fancy word, ask yourself:

“Would I use this word in conversation with a friend?”

If the answer is no, delete it and try again.

Your writing problem is your ego problem

Nobody cares about your writing. They care about what your writing does for them.

The biggest mistake most writers make is thinking that writing is about self-expression. It’s not. It’s about communication. And communication requires two parties:

1. The sender.

2. The receiver.

Most bad writing comes from focusing entirely on the sender (you) and forgetting about the receiver (your reader).

When was the last time you got excited about reading someone’s “expression”? You didn’t.

You got excited about ideas that challenged you, stories that moved you, or information that helped you solve a problem.

Your ego wants your writing to make you look smart, thoughtful, and impressive. Your reader wants your writing to make them feel smart, thoughtful, and impressed. See the conflict?

This isn’t just about writing — it’s about life. The best writers, like the best people, have figured out how to get over themselves enough to actually connect with others.

They’ve learned that vulnerability and clarity are more powerful than posturing and complexity.

When your ego is driving your writing, you’ll defend every sentence, every paragraph, every clever turn of phrase.

When your readers are driving your writing, you’ll ruthlessly cut anything that doesn’t serve them — even if it’s your favorite part.

Most readers quit after two paragraphs

Here’s a reality check: nobody owes you their attention. Not for a single word, let alone an entire article.

Studies show that most online readers bounce from articles within 15 seconds. Let that sink in.

Fifteen fucking seconds to grab someone’s attention before they decide you’re not worth their time.

But instead of adapting to this reality, most writers do the exact opposite.

They start with unnecessary context, flowery introductions, or vague promises about what’s coming “later in this article.”

Here’s the cold, hard truth: if your first paragraph doesn’t grab your readers by the collar and force them to pay attention, nothing else you write matters. It simply won’t be read.

Think of your opening like the first 30 seconds of a first date. If you start by talking about the weather, your date is already checking their phone under the table.

If you start with something surprising, provocative, or immediately valuable, you might just earn another few minutes of attention.

The most successful writers front-load value. They start with their most compelling point, their most surprising statistic, their most provocative statement.

They understand that attention must be earned, then re-earned with every paragraph.

It doesn’t matter how amazing your conclusion is if nobody gets there. Your brilliant insights on heading four might as well not exist if people check out heading one.

Ruthless editing beats natural talent

Writers love to romanticize the creative process.

They talk about inspiration, natural talent, finding their voice and other mystical bullshit that makes writing seem like some divine gift rather than a learnable skill.

Here’s what they don’t talk about enough: the brutal, unsexy work of editing.

Great writing isn’t written — it’s rewritten. And rewritten. And rewritten again.

I’ve never published a first draft of anything important in my life. Neither has any writer worth reading.

The difference between mediocre writing and great writing rarely happens during the initial brain dump — it happens during revision.

Ruthless editing means:

• Cutting any sentence that doesn’t add value

• Eliminating adverbs and replacing weak verbs with strong ones

• Deleting your clever asides that distract from the main point

• Reducing three paragraphs to one when one will do

This isn’t about perfectionism — it’s about respect. Respect for your reader’s limited time and attention.

Every unnecessary word you keep is stealing seconds from someone’s life they’ll never get back.

The harsh reality is that “natural talent” is mostly a myth.

What looks like natural talent is usually just someone who’s gotten really good at cutting the crap out of their work until only the essentials remain.

Write as you talk or nobody will listen

The most powerful writing doesn’t sound like writing at all.

It sounds like a smart, passionate person talking directly to you.

It has rhythm. It has personality. It uses contractions. It occasionally breaks grammar rules for effect. It doesn’t avoid using “I” or “you.”

It doesn’t hide behind passive voice or academic jargon.

Most people write in a voice they’d never use in real life. They put on their “writing hat” and suddenly become formal, distant, and boring as hell.

They use phrases like “it should be noted that” instead of just saying “note that” or better yet, nothing at all.

Here’s a simple test: read your writing out loud.

Does it sound like something you’d actually say to someone you’re trying to help? Or does it sound like you’re trying to impress your high school English teacher?

If you wouldn’t say it out loud to a friend in a bar, don’t write it. Please.

The most successful writers of our time — the ones who actually get read, who actually build audiences — write conversationally.

They write with personality. They write like real humans, not like institutions or textbooks.

The secret to readable writing isn’t luck. It’s giving a damn about your reader’s experience.

It’s being willing to put your ego aside and focus on communication rather than expression.

It’s editing ruthlessly, writing conversationally, and valuing clarity above all.

Anyone can do this. It doesn’t require talent.

It requires empathy, discipline, and a willingness to kill your darlings.

It requires treating writing as a service to the reader, not as a monument to yourself.

So stop trying to be impressive and start trying to be understood. Your readers will thank you — by actually reading what you write.

No bullshit advice.

Look, your first draft is supposed to be a dumpster fire. You can suffer through years of perfectionism alone, or skip the soul-crushing part with me.

Two 30-minute Zoom calls where we’ll kill your darlings together and focus on what actually matters.

Click here to turn your dumpster fire into something worth reading.