I'm changing the idea behind the paid version of this letter. Instead of summarizing past points, I will be focusing on revisiting topics and adding new insights that are great for folks who are serious about pursuing their art. Ideally, the originals should be condensed and actionable enough.
I'm releasing this one in full for free as a bit of a sampler, an amuse-bouche if you will. Today we are revisiting the topic of how to focus your story.
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Specificity is good, actually.
Writers need to be mindful not to prematurely tackle emotions and traumatize themselves for the sake of a story that will only cover a quarter of the rent on a good day. But for the emotions you want to share with your audience, it is good not to get bogged down in the notion that keeping things vague will somehow make them more relatable.
People are very good at relating to stories that have nothing to do with them on a surface level. And yet, in my experience editing, new writers are often hesitant to provide specific details for fear of alienating their audience.
Let's take a look at one of the best personal essays of the past couple of years, Michelle Zauner's Crying in H-Mart. The story is about the author's grief over the loss of her mother framed through their shared connection over food. In this section, Zauner talks about how the mundane task of selecting groceries at the Korean market can trigger her grief.
"I'll cry when I see a Korean grandmother eating seafood noodles in the food court, discarding shrimp heads and mussel shells onto the lid of her daughter's tin rice bowl. Her gray hair frizzy, cheekbones protruding like the tops of two peaches, tattooed eyebrows rusting as the ink fades out. I'll wonder what my Mom would have looked like in her seventies—if she would have the same perm that every Korean grandma gets as though it were a part of our race's evolution…"
"If I'm being honest, there's a lot of anger. I'm angry at this old Korean woman I don't know, that she gets to live and my mother does not, like somehow this stranger's survival is at all related to my loss. Why is she here slurping up spicy jjamppong noodles and my mom isn't? Other people must feel this way. Life is unfair, and sometimes it helps to irrationally blame someone for it."
Zauner's specificity here is precisely what makes the section so powerful. I don't know about you, but I didn't need Zauner to tell me how I felt when I first read this. Her skill as a writer allowed me to connect with the specificity of the emotion. I felt the urge to call my mother, even though I can count on two hands the number of times we have cooked a meal together.
If you've experienced any form of grief, the random mundane thing that caused you to remember that pain likely wasn't seeing someone eat seafood, but it was probably just as arbitrary. Maybe you've never lost a parent, but you've likely felt the anguish of misplaced anger and have felt that something in your life is deeply unfair. Zauner gives us concrete details that ground us and let us imagine similar examples in our own lives.
A more novice writer, writing from a place of insecurity, might try to cast a wider net by being vaguer with their descriptions.
Imagine this version of the above section:
"I experienced a lot after my mother died. There are many different ways people might react to grief. And it doesn't just have to be the loss of a mother—it can be a father or a friend. Even the loss from a breakup can feel similar. Sometimes people feel happy when they remember their loved ones. Sometimes people feel sad. Life is unfair."
This is not terrible writing, but it doesn't say a lot. There is not much here for the reader to grab onto. It is noble to try to be inclusive in your descriptions, but it is also often fine to claim your experiences and let them speak for themselves.
The popular newsletter writer Anna Codrea-Rado once said, "people want to read stuff that seems niche but is actually really universal." The mistake new writers make is thinking that the route to being universal is by zooming out as far out as possible. However, doing the opposite will often get you there in a more satisfying way. Specificity begets universality.
When you pull back too far on an idea, it is easy for new topics to crowd in under the umbrella.
With the grief example, if you are trying to talk about death and then mention the grief of breakups, suddenly the potential scope of your story doubles. It can be done well, but when you bring in too many topics, you often have to shave the edges off of each to make them fit into one theme. You end up using a ton of words to say nothing at all.
The mistake new writers make is thinking that the route to being universal is by zooming out as far out as possible.
Arguably and ironically, the newsletter that this Tool Kit addresses is guilty of this. Trying to say too much for a given piece will have you talking in circles and overloading your readers. It's like trying to cram ten gallons of corn into a five-gallon tin. It won't fit, and all that corn spilling on the table is going to get warm and runny, and no one wants to eat all that.
When you're approaching your drafts, take note of your distance from the topic. Look for spaces where you are being vague for vagueness's sake. Don't be afraid to own your experiences and trust in your audience's ability to connect with your words.
Catch the next Tool Kit in two weeks! New “I love words and you.” coming next week! As always, open to feedback on this change in format. Shoot me a message on any of the platforms below or leave a comment. Thank you for the support.