A great lead is prett-ay, prett-ay, prett-ay… important

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Written a crappy lead? Expect the reader to jump ship before the dock is out of sight.

Written a good lead? Expect them to joyfully stay with you for the entire voyage.

“Your lead was just too interesting, so I’m not going to continue reading,” said no one ever.

The first sentence, paragraph, or cohesive thought of a written story is called the “lead,” or in hard-core journalism circles, the “lede.” (I’ve always found that spelling to be a little snooty, so for this story, I’m sticking with “lead.”) To use a fishing analogy, the lead is your best opportunity to snag the reader like an enthusiastic bluegill on a treble hook and reel him back to the boat with no chance of shaking loose.

(It’s my story so I get to use fishing analogies if I want to.)

For hard-news writers, leads usually consist of the good ol’ 5 Ws — who, what, when, where, and why.

A Nashville man (who) was struck and injured by a runaway water buffalo (what) last night (when) near the Music City Zoo (where) after the animal managed to scale the 20-foot wall of its enclosure using “Mission Impossible”-style suction cups smuggled into the facility by a relative earlier in the day (why).

OK, that’s pretty interesting, but you see what I’m getting at. Structure-wise, it’s boring. The creativity of a typical beat writer is usually squashed by those Ws. She must (or should) convey the most important info in the lead and then flesh out the details in the body of the story.

Feature writers don’t have to do that. In fact, we are allowed to write with a clear bias toward our employer, industry, product, or whatever. (And yes, I realize there is also startling bias in today’s mainstream journalism, but that’s a topic for another newsletter and a different writer.) For years, I’ve written for farmer-owned agricultural cooperatives, and my stories hardly ever involve investigative journalism — they are about supporting my employer’s mission or telling the cooperative story in creative and positive ways.

That’s where the lead comes in.

Imagine a great feature-story lead to be like the classic Larry David comedy, “Curb Your Enthusiasm.” It’s nearly all improvisation, and the actors are encouraged to be inventive and, frankly, a little goofy and over the top. That could also describe an effective lead. The writer is not boxed in with normal rules of alternating quotes and paraphrases, attributions, and traditional sentence structure, but is allowed to make editorial statements, ask questions, incorporate a little slang, and even use sentence fragments.

What do cloven hooves, illegal and oddly powerful suction cups, and a very ticked off but resourceful 1,800-pound African bovine have in common? A Nashville man with a broken leg and the rest of us with a whole lot of unanswered questions.

The remainder of the story, however, is like any other traditional TV show — the actors follow a script, and the plot is carefully structured. As soon as the lead ends, we are bound by the natural laws of journalism to stick with a framework that readers clearly understand.

As an editor who often works with young writers (including my own kids), I regularly encounter otherwise decent stories with uninspired, mundane leads. This makes me nuts. I want to grab the writer and shake them, screaming, “This. Was. Your. Chance. To. Be. Creative! You. Blew. It!” (Each word gets its own shake.)

Of course, I don’t do that. But I want to.

But I’m totally serious when I say, “Don’t blow it.” A feature story lead is your best opportunity as a writer to have fun AND do your sworn duty of hooking the reader. Every  story you write took time and effort, and by writing it, there is a built-in assumption that it will somehow improve the life of the reader by reading it.

Might be by providing critical information. Might be by providing good ol’ mindless entertainment. (Arguably, just as valid.)

But by starting this important story with a lame lead, you are dooming it to a life of loneliness and indifference, never to be fully read.

That’s not cool!

Give your lead the time, consideration, creativity, and fun it deserves, and you will, in turn, lead your grateful reader down the path of enlightenment.

If you refuse to read, you can’t expect to write well

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When I became a communications professional back in 2003, the world was a much different place. Although personal computers had become commonplace and the Internet was running full blast, humanity had not yet been seduced by the sirens that would become known as “social media” and “smart phones.”

It wasn’t far away, though.

Facebook burst onto the scene in around 2005 — iPhones, a couple of years later — and as a result (intentional or not), the collective attention spans of human beings would shrink like a woolen sweater in the hot cycle. Twitter even made this official when it was introduced in 2006 by limiting stories to 140 characters. (In 2017, they very graciously doubled this to the startling, War and Peace-size word count of 280 characters.)

But way back in 2003, people could still handle a magazine feature story of 1,600 words. Heck, they could even read an entire book.

Not so much, now. Long-form reading has taken a back seat to the small blocks of colloquial copy that the world now serves to our tiny, pea-sized attention spans. Written communication has become as disposable as the products — shoes, vehicles, kids’ toys, etc. — that were once made of hearty materials and built by our grandparents to last.

Again, not so much, now.

In keeping with the trends in digital and social communication, the basic writing sessions that used to be mainstays at my communications seminars and many other similar events are getting hard to come by. I get it, and I enjoy social media as much as the next guy. (Maybe not quite as much, but pretty much.) But at the obvious risk of sounding like a typical “Boomer,” I urge you, Younger Communicator: Don’t neglect the craft of writing. Sure, when you head back home, do what you need to do to communicate via Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Snapchat, but also make long-form reading and writing an important part of your daily curriculum.

Start by reading a novel. Y’know, something that by modern standards would be considered excellent. Why? Because it is only by reading that we, as writers, can hope to understand the arc of a story, the development of a character, and sensible development of a plot — all things that are also necessary in writing quality non-fiction articles for our various publications.

If you refuse to read, you can’t expect to write well. It’s as simple as that.

How to interview a ‘dud’

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(Note: I’m writing this article from the perspective of a freelancer or communications pro who writes for a corporate magazine, newsletter, or something similar.)

 

There are “duds” in every walk of life. You probably have encountered one today.

You, to frowning checkout person at grocery store: Hey, there! How’s it going today?

Checkout person, not looking up: Beep… Beep… Beep…

You: Alrighty, then!

Unfortunately, not every person we interact with has the radiant, outgoing personality of a communications professional or freelance writer/journalist (wink, wink). Usually, we can either deal with these types quickly and move on or avoid them altogether. But what happens when we are tasked with interviewing a dud?

This is a moment when you really earn your money.

Probably eight out of 10 times, interview subjects are fairly happy to see you. They may be nervous and might not speak in perfect soundbites, but usually, people are somewhat flattered to have someone in the media (sorry if that word made you squirm a little) asking them what they think about things.

Occasionally, though, you run into a subject who would prefer a visit to a proctologist to being interviewed. Honestly, this is usually a result of the local contact for your organization not properly vetting the person to make sure he or she has the gift of gab and is amenable to the idea of being interviewed. (Ultimately, it’s your responsibility to make sure your contact knows what you’re looking for.)

The mistake often translates into interview exchanges like this:

You: Tell me, Mr. Manfrenjensen; what is your favorite thing about bullfrog farming?

Mr. Manfrenjensen, after a painfully long silence: I don’t know. Nothing I can think of.

You: Nothing? Surely there’s something!

Mr. Manfrenjensen, checking his watch and looking out the window: Uhhh… Uhh…

You: Just give me one thing. Anything.

Mr. Manfrenjensen: Well. I guess I like the bullfrogs pretty well.

And it goes on like this.

The bottom line is, not everyone likes to talk, let alone be interviewed, and there’s nothing you’re going to do to change that. Others may have been raised without any social training — not gonna change that, either. There’s probably a good reason why Mr. Manfrenjensen is a surly bullfrog farmer and not a game show host. (I’ve heard that bullfrog farmers are notoriously anti-social.) Sure, you may be able to break the ice a little by discovering an area of commonality between you, or by finding that person’s secret favorite hobby to discuss, but in most cases, you’ll be lucky to come away from this type of interview with anything good.

But you have to deliver a story.

In these excruciating cases, I’ve found that going to the basics is the best course of action. I usually begin by having Mr. Manfrenjensen give me the statistics of his farm. How many acres? How many, er, head of bullfrogs? Is it a family farm? How long has it been in the family?

Even a dud can answer these questions. It’s not philosophy, just facts.

After that, consider asking him about his wife, kids, and grandkids, if he has them. Even a world-class dud will lighten up a bit when discussing his grandchildren. Get all the hard and fast information from Mr. Manfrenjensen that you can before going in for the subjective questions.

You: Mr. Manfrenjensen, how the heck does one become a bullfrog farmer?

Mr. Manfrenjensen: Don’t know. Just did.

If he refuses to go there, then you at least have the framework for a story. But don’t give up until you give it the old college try. React to his surliness with enthusiasm and good nature, as if you haven’t noticed his behavior, and then flee the premises as soon as possible. There’s no reason to put the poor man through any more misery. Write a short profile, fill in with quotes from other sources, or make your awesome bullfrog photos a little bigger in the spread. So, what are the takeaways to interviewing a dud?

  1. Try to avoid it altogether by making sure your local contacts know what kind of subject you’re looking for.
  2. Be prepared for it when it happens; it eventually will.
  3. Ask questions about family to break the ice.
  4. At the very least, get the factual information.
  5. Be nice, write your story, and move on.

Use a pre-story-submission checklist

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Effectively editing your own writing is impossible. There, I said it.

But why? Why is it so dad-gummed difficult?? And where does the phrase “dad-gummed” come from, anyway???!

I don’t have any official answer for either, so I’ll give you my somewhat educated opinion, which you may take or leave. (About self-editing, not dad-gummed.)

It’s easy to become enamored with your own writing. By typing a keyboard with your fingers, you are creating a thought that, moments before, didn’t exist. But now … presto! A brand-new thought was just birthed into the world. So yes, at the risk of using a well-worn cliche, your writing becomes your new baby, and who is comfortable in critiquing their own squiggly, cooing baby? Certainly not me! (When they become teenagers, it’s a lot easier.)

It’s also difficult to catch typos in your own writing. My theory is, when you read your own copy, you know what’s coming — it isn’t new to you — so your brain fills in the missing words or changes “your” to “you’re” in your mind without signaling your hands to make that correction on the page. This is why it’s always a good idea to sleep on a story before editing it. When you come back to it, things won’t be quite as fresh and you will read the story more as another person might.

But whether you represent a self-editing freelancer or are a member of a large staff, consider using a pre-story-submission checklist before giving the printer the green light or sending your story around to be edited by others. In both environments, you will save yourself the time of making changes, you will spare your coworkers the agony of fixing your mistakes, and you will end up with a much better story for your readers.

Answer these questions:

  • What kind of story is it? If it’s a straight news story, use the 5 Ws and get quickly to the point. If it’s a feature story, be a little more creative with the lead and use interesting transitions. Be clear on the goal and nature of your story before writing the first word, and then double-check to make sure the finished product jives with your intention before submitting it.
  • Have I answered all of my own questions? Be sure that when you pose a question in your story, you answer it. Or, if you make a cryptic statement of some kind in the lead, you don’t leave the reader hanging. Explain yourself and answer your own questions.
  • Am I making subjective comments as statements of fact? This is a biggie. If John loved the rodeo, be sure that John says this in a quote. This is journalism, not fiction, so we can’t have intimate knowledge, as the writer, of what John does and doesn’t love. He has to tell us himself. In another example, don’t say that the weather was “so nice” or “amazing” in your copy. Say the weather was “mild” or “temperatures were below average.” These are statements of fact. Let your story subjects make personal comments on the weather in quote form.
  • Is every word necessary? “Rainfall during the month of August was below average all across the entire state of Nebraska.” A better choice might be, “Nebraska’s rainfall was below average in August.” There’s nothing wrong with being creative in your writing, but there’s definitely a problem with using unnecessary words. Strive to meet your word count as efficiently as possible. That equals more meat and less fat in your writing.
  • Is this story actually interesting, and will anyone other than the subject give a hoot? A cardinal sin of feature writing is penning a story full of boring exposition, family names, ages, and backgrounds, and banal detail simply to satisfy a word count. But when you view it from 30K feet, it’s about as compelling as your monthly water bill. Look at the first draft as way to get the facts down on paper; the second draft should be about making that copy more directed toward an interesting angle.

Writing is hard and often thankless work, so I admire you for undertaking the job. But never be seduced by that sneaky devil on your shoulder who is assuring you that your first draft is a masterpiece. It’s not. It never is, no matter who you are. Ask yourself the hard questions and make that story better.

Keep your paragraphs from crashing into one another — write good transitions

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Imagine that you’re driving along on Interstate 40, minding your own business, and you hit one of those terrible patches of pavement where the top layer has been scraped off in preparation for re-paving.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!!

You know what I’m talking about. The sound of your tires on the grooved sublayer creates a sound akin to an approaching tornado. After a few seconds of torture, you see the newly paved section approaching, but the road crew has failed to create a nice little pavement slope from the sublayer to the new layer. What happens? The front tires bang into the new layer with a jolt that rattles your fillings, wakes the baby, and likely loosens every screw, bolt, and rivet in your once-pristine vehicle.

Ouch.

A similar thing happens when you fail to write a transition between paragraphs. Whether consciously or subconsciously, the reader’s mind bangs into the next paragraph with an unappealing jolt.

Good transitions are what make your story an easy read. They create a smooth, glossy, playground slide for the reader’s figurative backside, with the top of the slide being the story lead, and the bottom of the slide, the ending. Without good transitions, it’s a bumpy ride down for the reader, and they will likely jump off before the end.

Here’s an example of poor transition:

Harvey Manfrengensen grows 5,000 acres of soybeans, cotton, and corn on his farm in Pawnee, Indiana. In addition to his row crops, Manfrengensen also raises 11,000 turkeys and some 75 head of water buffalo.

“I really enjoy shooting skeet with my son-in-law, Jean-Ralphio,” Manfrengensen says. “Those clay targets don’t stand a chance.”

Quite a jolt, right? We needed a transition. How about…

Harvey Manfrengensen grows 5,000 acres of soybeans, cotton, and corn on his farm in Pawnee, Indiana. In addition to his row crops, Manfrengensen also raises 11,000 turkeys and some 75 head of water buffalo. With this extremely odd pairing of crops and livestock, the Indianan says shotgun sports have become his “outdoor therapy session” and one he enjoys sharing with family.

“I really love shooting skeet with my son-in-law, Jean-Ralphio,” Manfrengensen says. “Those clay targets don’t stand a chance.”

Sure, that’s an extreme example, but you get my drift. If your paragraphs are slipping seamlessly from one to another rather than colliding with jarring thuds, you’re doing it right.

~ Mark Johnson

First draft? Banish the editor

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I write “instructional” articles as much for myself as for the intended audience.

The fact is, it’s often easier to recommend and even teach certain techniques than it is to put them into action. I need to be reminded. A lot.

That’s certainly the case with this article’s subject: banishing your internal editor.

I’ll be the first to admit it: I have a tendency to try to write things perfectly in the first draft. (I can feel myself doing it right now.) When I finish a story to my satisfaction, I like the idea that I can submit it immediately without much revision at all.

This is stupid. Don’t do this. (I’m speaking to myself here.)

In its best, most creative form, writing is a sloppy business. Sentence construction is suspect, paragraphs are too long, spelling is atrocious, and grammar is unforgivable.

But that’s OK. In fact, it’s perfect.

Writing the first draft of anything should have nothing to do with proper grammar, sentence construction, or anything else that your Freshman Composition instructor would be happy with. A first draft is about creativity. It’s about letting the romper room of overly-caffeinated thoughts in your brain rush down your neck, divert out your arms, and explode from your fingertips until the pounding of the computer keys sounds like the cadence of the natives’ drums in some bad Tarzan movie. The faster, the better. Don’t spend a bunch of time agonizing over each sentence.

I’ll let you in on a little secret. Lean closer to your computer so you can hear me.

We all suck.

It’s true. As creative writers, all of us are operating at varying degrees of suckiness. (It’s a word because I just made it up.)

Don’t get me wrong. The world is full of insanely talented writers, but none of us are the Hemingways we think we are as we spend two hours trying to choose between the words “voluminous” and “copious.” However, the more we write, the less we suck, so our goal should be to write more.

Trying to write perfectly — especially in the first draft — results in only one thing: your frustration. Instead of rushing toward a satisfying conclusion to your story — one that can be tweaked, polished, and spiffed up in the editing process — you find yourself wearing lead shoes in one of those dream tunnels that keeps getting longer and longer. The story wants to be written and is straining at the leash, but as the author, you keep yanking it back in pursuit of perfection right out of the gate.

Banish your internal editor. Rudely show him the door and fling out his impertinent red markers as well. The first draft is supposed to be an epic party, and your internal editor is a boorish, high-school chaperone. Invite all your craziest, most reckless thoughts to the first draft. You know, the ones who initiate drunk Twister and end up passed out in the bathtub wearing a lopsided Sharpie mustache. These are the guys you want because they’re not trying to impress anyone.

There should never be a filter between an idea and the process of its expression.

Once you have exhausted your creativity and that party in your brain has resulted in the deranged and unexpected pairings of known elements to create new ideas, you can welcome back your editor with open arms. He will roll up his sleeves, survey the room with mock disgust, and have at it.

And you, my reckless friend, will have a better byline than you expected.

~Mark