3 Lessons on Wooing a Reader

On this day of love, allow me to talk about when writing and stories hit you right in the honey-nut-feelios. 

You know what I’m talking about. Those scenes or plot twists or satisfying endings that tug at your heartstrings and require a moment. Depending on what has occurred or how blown away by the wordsmithing you are, that could be a moment of stunned silence, a moment of smiling stupidly at the page, a moment where you have to quickly retread ground you already read because you have to make sure what you think just happened actually did.

The honey-nut-feelios come in all shades and colors, so I recognize that today is all about love, something positive, but would argue that covering a wide range of emotions is still relevant because a story doesn’t get to break your heart if you haven’t already fallen in love with it. It also doesn’t get to sing its unique joy to you, if it hasn’t already wooed you and won you over.

There’s a magic equation for optimal honey-nut-feelio engagement, and I haven’t cracked it, in terms of how to perfectly execute it every time I sit down to write my own stories. I’m working on it. 

I know it exists, though, and I know that because there are authors I believe have learned it. They are the ones I go back to for inspiration and guidance, the ones whose wordsmithing I wish to linger in. Oftentimes, when I’m reading, I’m not even fully aware the magic equation has been completed until I’ve reached the end and hindsight shows all the variables that came into play.

Perhaps you’re wanting to argue with me now and say that there is no one equation. All right, I’ll give you that and acknowledge that different variables satisfy different readers. We may both adore the same book but for different reasons. A single book can garner reviews from both ends of the spectrum.

When I write, I have to do so by my equation, though. Trying to guess at what will please or entice other readers is futile and discouraging. I don’t recommend that approach, to anyone out there aspiring to be a writer. Writing a story you want to tell means writing it the way you and you alone can tell it.

It’s like when you’re getting to know someone—the most cliché piece of advice is to just be yourself. You gotta write like that. I’m not an expert on befriending or wooing a reader, but I have a few suggestions that may be helpful as you construct your personal magic equation. Authenticity is the first variable, yet it can’t do all the heavy lifting on its own. 

So, if you’re a fellow writer, allow me to share some Lessons on Wooing a Reader that I’ve picked up from books and authors that have successfully gotten me right in the honey-nut-feelios.

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No. 1: Serve your readers lasagna.

What is true about excellent lasagna? Impeccable layers. Now, I suppose, it’s possible to over-layer, so keep an eye on that, too, as this metaphor translates over to the act of writing. But what I mean is this: layer your themes and motifs to create a nuanced ebb and flow of meaning throughout the entire story.

At the end of the year, I re-read my favorite book, A Gentleman in Moscow (Towles, 2016), and this time around I kept a pencil with me to annotate as I went. Couldn’t have had more fun if I’d tried. Fell more in love with the story and the characters. An observation that popped up again and again as I read was that no theme was ever done with after the first time it was introduced and they had a way of sneaking up on you down the road.

Keeping with the pasta metaphor, the first theme was laid down as the noodles to establish the first bit of meaning the story was communicating. Finding purpose, for instance, was a theme at play. The main character, Count Rostov, has his life thrown around, and he has to ask himself, What now? You see him make some choices, and those choices lend meaning to what the story is saying about purpose. 

Then, of course, the plot carries on, and here come more themes. More layers. You’ve got the cheese and spinach. I’m not going to decide for you what all your ingredients are—but you have to get back around to your noodles at some point.

By the time you pick that theme up again, all that’s come before may have morphed it. Maybe characters and cause/effect have revealed more depth to the theme than when we first encountered it. And maybe readers have been occupied with the other layers to have forgotten, just a touch, how meaningful that first layer is. They get to feel it again, hopefully in a more robust way. 

As I mentioned above, you have to be cautious to not over-stuff your lasagna. You cram too much in and the flavor-magic gets a little lost; the right balance doesn’t get struck. You have the power to make smart choices about themes. Listen to your characters, too, because they’ll reveal to you the hidden recipe of what their story needs. 

No. 2: Be a smooth talker.

Let me ask you this: are you writing sentences, or are you making art?

Obviously, some sentences are utilitarian and nothing poetic. Basic dialogue tags suffice. Plain descriptions can be necessary. To dress up something that should be simple often makes it feel stilted. There is beauty in the simplistic, too, after all.

Yet, you can be precise in what words or phrasing you choose. A taste of brevity can, in the right moment, be more poignant than waxing on and on. It comes down to knowing the cadence of your writing and paying attention to your vernacular. 

In one Creative Writing class I took, we had to do an exercise that was simple yet quite informative. All you need for this exercise is a solid page of your writing and three, different colored highlighters. Designate one color to the three lengths of sentences: short, medium, and long. Those lengths may seem subjective, so just use your best judgement. Then go through, color by color. 

Examine the finished product. Is there a balance of the colors? Does one color overwhelm the others? Had you not realized that you write full essays in just a single sentence? Does the color scheme make sense given the voice and style of the piece?

To further that exercise, take a good look at how you start each sentence. Do you use a lot of pronouns or names to kickstart your next thought? Verbs? Adverbs? Sometimes the repetition is there without us noticing. Sometimes it’s done on purpose. Sometimes it ends up working.

Consider this also (and, please, don’t be offended by my asking): do you know how to properly wield a semicolon? A colon? An em dash? I know the rules of grammar aren’t what one would consider captivating, but it’s a fair thing to ask a writer to learn about them. Utilizing different kinds of punctuation means you’ve got all those little squiggles, dots, and dashes as tools in your box. Knowing the rules can also help you better understand how artistic license can break them.

I’m going to recommend, with this lesson, picking up South of Broad (Conroy 2009), Giovanni’s Room (Baldwin, 1956), or Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow (Zevin, 2022). All exhibit excellent word-smithing.

No. 3: Make it feel real.

People want substance, and readers are people so guess what they want? 

When I find a book is too rose-tinted, I call it being “too fluffy.” A book that’s too fluffy is a book I have some grief about. It’s not a satisfying read. This is not to say, of course, that I want everything I read to be depressing as all get out and that every loveable character has to be dead by the end. I do want realistic stakes, though, and a plot that forces characters to wrestle and deal with tough things. In some ways, a character must earn their resolution.

So, what does that look like from the writer’s perspective? 

It looks like sitting down with your characters and fleshing out their strengths so that you can understand what would foil them. And then! You must actually follow through on putting your characters through the tough stuff, even if that’s challenging (for them to live through or for you to write).

Contrasts and limitations that naturally emerge when you identify different pieces of a character’s person/situation should spark ideas for where the stakes of your story lay. Stakes cannot then be dismissed or magically explained away. A story can still be feel-good or lighthearted yet still manage conflict or serious life events.

I’m calling attention to The Vanderbeekers of 141st Street (Glaser) for this lesson. It’s the first book in a middle grade series about a family in Harlem and the (mis)adventures that ensue when there are five kids ages four to twelve. In this book, the Vanderbeekers are on the brink of losing their apartment because their landlord is refusing to renew their lease. A very real stake comes to the surface immediately. 

Each kid, naturally, is upset and wants to figure out how they can stay in the home they’ve always known and loved. More stakes emerge because you understand what each kid feels they’re at risk of losing. You see them strategize on how to win over their landlord, so each scheme asks for you to invest in hoping for a positive outcome. Emotional investment bids to the reader are crucial to keeping them. Why should they continue to care—or read—if they can’t identify the gravity of what they’d be walking away from, should they put the book down? 

There is sometimes this idea that the most significant emotional bids are plot points that involve tragic romantic love or a dramatic death. I’d like to claim that it’s the more subtle, nuanced moments of investment that hit us in those darn honey-nut-feelios with more consistency. How we see friends interact, what happens around the quiet kitchen table, the dreams we see a protagonist work towards. That’s not to say that romance and death-related elements can’t be written in a way to effectively evoke responses from readers.

What I’m saying is that you can turn any situation, seemingly mundane or otherwise, into a convincing story of something important being on the line. The experience you write about doesn’t have to be universal for you to help readers comprehend and empathize all that’s unfolding. Because what’s universal are the roots of what’s at stake. Everyone wants to be loved, in some way. Everyone knows what it is to be afraid. Everyone knows the world is not made of pure sunshine and rainbows every day of the week. You gotta write about the troubles, the bright spots, all a character might encounter in their story, in a way that’s realistic. If you do that, the reader’s emotional investment can’t help but start to grow.

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This is merely scratching the surface of all there is to consider when piecing together a story, and even with these three lessons there’s so much more to say, so much nuance to the ways characters and plot points work to evoke emotions from us readers.

The very best thing, if you’re looking to uncover more of those lessons to inform your writing, is to revisit those texts you adore. As you read, ask, Why is this working? and analyze the elements that stick out. When a story gets you in the honey-nut-feelios, look extra hard at that moment. Study it—and don’t forget to savor and enjoy it. 

A good story should make you feel, in all kinds of ways. And, if you can’t quite put a finger on the why behind the magic, that’s okay, too. It’s enough sometimes to simply let a story woo you and to let yourself fall in love with it.