These Types of Articles Make My Heart Sink
Your readers deserve something concrete
As a publication editor, I read a ton of articles.
Some are not necessarily articles that I would seek out to read, but I often find myself sitting up straight, engaged in the story, learning something new, or appreciating the creative spirit behind the piece.
What makes my heart sink, though, is when an author overpromises and underdelivers. They tell of a life-changing moment, but the story never lands. Almost always, this is because the author withholds the juicy details that make me care.
“I was getting bullied…” and that's it.
There is no context. Nothing concrete. I don’t know who the bully is, what he did, or what changed for the author to stand up to him. I don’t know what he said or did to challenge the bullying behaviour.
Instead of making the story personal, it’s vague. There’s no action. The details are filtered out, and we’re left with a generic story. There is nothing identifiable as unique to the author.
Telling us “inflation went from 3% to 6%” doesn’t get us fired up. We can nod our heads in agreement that that might be unfortunate for the money in our pockets, but it has no detail. We’re not trading in our Friday night curry for mashed potatoes. It doesn’t convey what it means to us in our daily lives.
Underlying a rise in inflation are millions of living human stories of struggle, even despair: people worrying how they can put boiled rice and beans on the table for their families.
“John and Sarah have three kids. After paying their rent, they are left with £75 a week to heat, feed, and clothe their children, Francis, Gabriel and Jane. They still ask for an apple in their packed lunch, but their parents can’t afford them.”
That’s the concrete part of the story, the reality of a 3% rise in inflation.
Readers value original, high-quality personal stories. Everyone has unique experiences they can share that others can learn from.
I don’t want to read, “I was tired,” it’s meh! Okay, you are exhausted, but why? What happened to burn you out? I never find out.
Write scenes, not summaries. Anchor ideas in a detailed moment. Create a picture in your reader’s mind. People remember what they see, not what they were told.
“I sat at my desk, shoulders tight, eyes glued to the blinking cursor of a half-written email to my boss. It was 2:14 a.m. I had been staring at the screen for nearly an hour, trying to summon words that wouldn’t come.”
Now I am interested. I have some information gaps that need to be filled. And the author had better fill them. This leans into narrative storytelling.
Telling someone you are tired is abstract. Showing how exhausted you are and why is concrete. Abstract writing is not tied to specific examples. Concrete writing focuses on specific, sensory, and tangible details to create vivid images and deeper connections with the reader.
You aren’t fooling anyone
Abstract ideas are easier to write. They are short and quick.
Concrete detail takes more effort, observation, and recall. That’s why abstract articles fall short on word count. They relay their transformative change, without detailing why they specifically needed it, what happened to cause the change and what difference it made to them.
Abstract writing is not immersive. The reader can’t imagine what the author has gone through because there are no details. Sensory experience, small actions, and specific dialogue — all make the writing vivid, relatable, and memorable.
One day, not long after moving to the academy, I was in the playground when a boy from another primary school began shoving and mocking Ian.
Ian was always a step behind. His clothes never quite fit, and his shoes were worn and tattered. He was slow to answer, never sure if he understood what was being asked. He lingered on the edge of groups, and worry plagued his eyes. He was easy prey.
Ian and I had been at the same primary school, and I felt for him. He didn’t deserve to be bullied. I told the boy to leave him alone.
The bully turned on me, “What’s it got to do with you?”
I moved between the bullyboy and Ian. Folded my arms and stared him out. I said nothing. My message was clear: if you want to get to Ian, you’ll need to go through me first.
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“Do you want a fight?” he spat.
The night before, I’d watched a film where the same thing had happened to the hero. So I copied what he did.
“Okay,” I said. “What are the rules?”
“Rules? Rules!” he mocked. “There are no rules.”
Before he finished talking, I hooked my left leg around the back of his legs and shoved his chest. He hit the ground hard. “Okay,” I said and walked away.
That playground incident has stayed with me. It’s burned into my brain. You don’t forget heart-pounding incidents like that, especially when the guy gets up off the ground and punches you three times on the face.
I stood there and took it. I was just a thirteen-year-old kid, but I had the balls to look him in the eye and say, “I could have kicked the fuck out of you while you were on the ground.” I could tell from the look he gave me that he would remember that.
I don’t know if it made my life easier. I only got in a couple of fights after that, none of them with the same boy. It probably saved Ian from being persecuted relentlessly. But the times I bumped into him in later years, he still had that haunted look in his eyes.
Bullying, when you stop to think about it, is remarkably versatile. It’s a daily battle for the child: corridor shoves, snide remarks, whispered insults that won’t go away.
In the workplace, it could mean extra work, no toilet breaks or undermining ideas. It’s still bullying, only with fancier titles and less shoving — if your boss is going around pushing you, it’s time to update your CV.
Everyone reacts differently: some laugh, some look away, and the brave ones who challenge it often go home with two black eyes and a manufactured story about getting hit by a swing. My Dad raised a sceptical eyebrow but said nothing to further my mother’s concern.
Focusing on the details is better than being general. Being specific makes it more relatable. Concentrate on the specifics, and people will connect with it. Readers will see themselves in your story if you share your personal experiences.
Saying, “When I was thirteen, I stood up to a bully,” covers the whole of my story, but it is as unremarkable as a quarter percent rise in inflation.
Yes, it’s easier to write abstract articles, but that isn’t the only reason. Sometimes it’s about protecting yourself. You don’t want to admit to hiding in the loo to avoid an ex-boyfriend or bursting into tears the moment you shut your front door.
We sometimes believe people will think less of us if we reveal our vulnerabilities, so we skip the details. Many articles read like an obituary. “I overcame adversity. I learned resilience. I grew stronger.” But the obituary never says that the “distress” was caused by a father who shaved her hair off when he was drunk.
We don’t learn much from generics, but we discover a lot about adversity from the person who wore a baseball cap for half their childhood. It’s the details that make the story:
Abstract: “Our dog was funny.”
Concrete: “Our monkeydog loved playing hide and seek, but he thought he was invisible if he couldn’t see us. He’d put his head behind the curtain and leave his body in plain view, tail wagging like a metronome on speed.”
Abstract: “It was an awkward date.”
Concrete: “He arrived on a rickety old bicycle, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, smoking a cheroot and spent fifteen minutes telling me about his bladder problem, and all the time I couldn't take my eyes off his cheap wig.”
Editing has shown me that everyone has a story to tell, but some want to keep the details to themselves.
Some don’t give themselves permission to expose their true vulnerabilities. They don’t want to look stupid, petty, or ridiculous. The truth is, we readers are all these things, too, and we want the comfort of knowing that we are just like everyone else.
You can do that for us by indulging us with the details.
The messy, awkward, embarrassing parts are the ones readers lean in to. Leave out the knobbly bits, and your readers will also leave. What matters most are the parts that make us squint.
Telling us you changed without revealing the specific circumstances is what makes our shoulders sag. Dropping the messy steps along the way is the fascinating part. The naked circumstances are what keep us reading to the end.
Nobody likes to get punched in the face, but we delight in reading about it. Show the bruises, the cheap wigs, the monkeydog behind the curtain, and we’ll stick with you to the end.
