What Makes a Good Blog Post?
I have had several requests from readers to talk about writing blog posts. They have graciously told me that they think some of my posts are well written and engaging, and they want to know how I do it — what the trick is, what the method is.
I have spent some time thinking about this, and I think there are four main questions to ask yourself when writing a blog:
1.) Who’s your audience? The beauty of a blog is that you should know exactly who you are speaking to and what they want/need from you, because they are your people. Even if you are just starting out — if you only have 5 followers — those are your people and you should speak to them. In This is Marketing, Seth Godin says that marketing is doing work that matters for people who care. The people who follow you are the people who care. Your first job is to know who they are. I know, for example, that my audience is comprised of book writers who are taking their craft seriously and the business of being a writer seriously; book coaches who are learning how to guide those writers and run sustainable businesses; and maybe a few fellow entrepreneurs who are running human-centered businesses focused on creative endeavors. Your audience may be comprised of people who are passionate about the genre or topic of your novels; who are interested in the ideas found in your nonfiction work; or who think that the way you talk about writing or politics or volleyball or tech start-ups or dragons is interesting or cool or useful or funny.
Your second job is to do work that matters to them. You do that by listening — to the posts they like and the ones that don’t, the things they write to you about, the things they ask for more of. See me doing that here today? People asked, I listened, and hopefully I am writing something that matters to at least some of them.
It is worth noting that Godin talks about not trying to please everyone. Everyone who has ever been in the business of anything — including writing blogs and books — eventually gets to this. It is one of the core lessons I teach in my Business of Book Coaching course: know who you are NOT going to serve. I had to be hit over the head with this lesson by Pam Slim, when she was coaching me in taking my business to the next level.
2.) What’s your point? Just like with a book, you have to know what you are trying to say in every blog post, what your message is, what the takeaway is going to be. Every story (or post) has a point.
3.) What’s the structure? Just like with a book (do you sense a theme here?) you have to have a structure. It can be a very architectural one like this post with four points, or it can be the way a story moves and flows from A to B to C, or from A to B and back to A, but form is function. Good writing always has a good structure. Structure is the thing that holds the tension that gets resolved at the end. It’s the thing that drives the narrative forward. Structural decisions include where to enter the story — how to frame it; what direction to take, and how to resolve it. It’s very musical, in a way — the way a piece of music moves from chorus to chorus, builds and grows, repeats, provides resolution. Music is deeply structural. Same with writing. Look for it in the posts you tend to forward to people, the stories you love, the movies that leave you satisfied. It’s always there.
4.) How can you get emotion on the page? (Yup! Theme confirmed! Story is story is story as I am always saying. Whether you are writing a blog or a memoir or a middle-grade novel or a nonfiction book about losing weight or climbing Mount Everest or, um, impeachment, the same rules apply, the same skills are needed, the same things demand your attention.) There are so many blogs that are just sort of — there. They present facts. Or simple ideas. Or tips. But they don’t grab you, they don’t make you feel anything. The author hasn’t put any emotion on the page that would draw you in, or allow you to tap into anything real. They are… stingy… for lack of a better word.
I try very hard to put myself into my posts. When I sit down to write them, I am intentional about being as real as I can be. This is a commitment I make to my readers. (See #1. You are real to me. Not abstract. I feel that I made a promise to write each week and to write something that matters. I try to honor the gift of your attention.)
Right now, for example, it is 7 o’clock the night before this blog is going live — it will go live 8 hours from now. I am two days past the deadline when this post was owed to my team member who proofs and posts it. I missed the deadline because I have had a hard week. And today was a hard day. I had a migraine. And had to give a long webinar even though I didn’t feel well. I thought about not writing this post — which I had planned out three days ago. I thought about putting up an old favorite. Or just writing something simple and lame. But I decided not to. I decided to carry on and try to write something for you that is helpful and real. And that has something you can actually feel; I am not writing this part so you will feel pity for me — I’ve lived with migraines for 28 years; it’s just a part of my life. And hard weeks? They happen to us all. I am writing this part to inspire you. That’s the emotion I want you to feel. I want to show you that in order to get emotion on the page, you have to be committed to doing that work. You have to want to do it. To write something that matters for people who care, YOU have to care.
What does that look like?
One of our Author Accelerator writers, who is working on a novel based on Vincent van Gogh’s sister, wrote a blog post last week that brought me to tears. Her name is Joan Fernandez, and you can follow her here. She said that she began to share this part of her book research on her blog when I told her that I thought people (historical novel readers, art history buffs, European travelers, Vincent van Gogh fans) would be fascinated by the behind-the-scenes work she was doing. There is always so much to say about a book long before that book is in the world. This post has all four of the elements I just discussed. It is a spectacular piece of writing. I share it with you here in full, with my commentary in brackets so you can see why it works so well, and how it follows these four rules. Thanks to Joan for allowing me to share it.
________________________
“If you ask me what I came into this life to do, I will tell you: I came to live out loud.”
— Emile Zola
To live out loud!
As in, not shutting up about why you’re here. As in, interrupting everyone within ear shot when you are consumed by your need to communicate. As in, ignoring polite chitchat — in fact, rejecting eloquence and appropriateness and perfection — and following gut instinct to spill out your unedited thoughts and YELL until you’re heard. [The structural decision Joan made here was to give us a “blind lead” — we’re not exactly sure what she’s talking about here, and we sense that something is up with what she is doing. That tension gets resolved in the next line.]
OK, that’s my 4-month-old grandson.
(He just visited.) [Very cute opening — it’s personal and she’s made it relevant, too.]
But I am also describing when my novel almost died. When I had a “live out loud” conversation that left me wondering whether I’d made a gigantic mistake writing my book. After spending 15 months writing the first draft, then weeks doing follow-up research — for that matter, after giving up a 22-year profession to write — I had a conversation that literally told me to stop.
Tell any tale but not my tale.
Not Jo. [You can feel the structure here, too. Joan is making a promise. We get that this is going to turn out well. She says her book almost died, not that it died. She is inviting us to go on a journey with her. And we want to go. Because she is writing with authority, and she clearly has a point to make for writers about doubt and perseverance. We are the audience who cares about writing, and she has something to say that matters to us.]
Here’s the story.
Amsterdam was the last city on our trip to Europe this fall. My husband and I were a little suitcase-weary and ready to get home, but on our itinerary was a meeting I’d been waiting for all summer. An interview with a Senior Research Director at the Van Gogh Museum. [More tension…this sounds intense!]
I’d had a recurring thought for months that I should talk with someone from the museum. A ton of my research had come from its rich reservoir of books and research archives. I thought if there would be anyone who would appreciate Jo’s achievement in saving Vincent’s artwork, I’d find that person there. [More tension…she had such hope here.]
So, earlier in the summer I sweated over a carefully worded email request for a meeting. [We’ve all been there… and we are with her now. We’re in her skin, feeling what she is feeling, wanting this to turn out well. This is emotion on the page.] After an agonizing delay, I received a response: This director was very busy with the launch of a new biography on Jo and had very little time. However, we could meet for 30 minutes. He gave me a date, time and street address for the museum’s research department. The email exchange was in July; now it’s October.
The day has arrived.
It’s about a half-hour walk from our hotel to the meeting’s street address. I worry this will be the day our GPS directions get tangled up by the canals (it’s happened before). We take a cab. [More tension…things feel like they might go wrong!]
The museum research department is in a nondescript grey building on a side street, in the Museum Quarter, where a football-field-size green is surrounded by three of Amsterdam’s major art museums: the national art and history Rijksmuseum, the contemporary art Stedelijk, and the Van Gogh Museum. Half a block away from the green the cab drops us off in the rain. We spot no building signage, so we check the street number — it’s right — and lean on the doorbell. We’re buzzed in. [Great detail here and below too — it’s specific. She lets us be on the journey with her.]
In the foyer straight ahead is a worn staircase. To the left runs a long hall of open offices, blocked by a locked glass door. To the right are more offices, also behind glass. We approach a security guard who checks the roster for our names and asks us to wait. Later I find out that the building was a girls’ school for domestic skills — cooking, sewing, managing a household — so now my memory includes the impression of hundreds of girls dashing up and down that staircase. [Masterful little flashback…] But in that moment, all I think is that I am in the epicenter of the Van Gogh worldwide operation. [The stakes are so high!]
In it are the people that keep careful watch over the Van Gogh name (I find out they have software that alerts them instantly to every social media mention of Vincent worldwide). In it, researchers hunt down corroborating information to piece together ever-expanding details about Vincent’s life. In this building are experts that have dedicated their entire professional lives to Vincent van Gogh. [The repetition of the point here is very effective.]
Vincent IS their lifework.
My pulse starts to race from the voice in my head:. Novice writer. Never published. Greenhorn. Amateur.
Fraud. [UGH — we are so with her here. We’re all been there. And her point in this piece is ABOUT THIS VERY THING.]
The security guard motions: He wants the umbrella.
I hear footsteps behind me. A young woman steps from the staircase and smiles, “Please come.” My eyes rest on her black ballet-slipper flats and follow. The stairs are discolored, worn white in the center of the steps. We are climbing too fast. My heart is in my throat. I’ve forgotten what I’m going to say. In seconds we round the last stairwell corner. A familiar man sits facing us in a wheelchair — the grey hair, the glasses, known to me from my Google searching — my hands fly to my cheeks. It’s Him!
Honestly, I am the biggest nerd. I rush to the man to shake his hand and he flinches back a bit. Probably not used to groupies. It’s just that in that moment I’m overwhelmed to meet the person who has had such a guiding hand, who’s been such a door opener into the minds and hearts and innermost thoughts of Jo and Vincent and Theo. A person whose work has brought them to life for me. [All this is just perfect — her fear and her hope for her book, and her identity as a writer is all right here on the page.]
Intellectually, I know this man is not alone. That he’s worked with co-authors and teams of people. It’s just that his name’s been so consistent, appearing again and again in so many bylines, that its come to signal “friend.”
If there’s anyone that will understand my book, it’s him. [UGH — the stakes feel so high!]
I release my grip on our handshake. My husband and I step aside and the director wheels into the conference room next to us. My husband widens his eyes at me: Get it together! I smooth my jacket with sweaty hands and follow them into the room. I select a seat kitty-corner to the director.
On the table is a copy of my email. Our eyes lock. He leans toward me and starts in. For years writers and filmmakers and artists have come to him about Vincent. Wild stories that treat Vincent unfairly. Over the years he’s read phony diary entries and spurious letters as though from Vincent or Theo or Jo. His eyes narrow. He’s seen ridiculous lies and false claims that either make him angry or deeply sad. He’s told his staff not to show him everything that’s misstated anymore — it’s too painful — especially because the flagrant lies are manipulating the Van Gogh name. All for personal gain. [OH SHIT!]
My eyes are locked on his. My mind is racing. Like flipping through Rolodex cards each thing I’ve made up in my book jerks to mind. Each character, each circumstance. Each decision I have Jo make. Each made-up conversation. Yes, research is helping me to be historically accurate to the times and what I call the “tent poles” of Jo’s life. Yet, the story that’s tapped on the keyboard is not biography. It’s fiction.
“They can write their stories,” he said. “People can write what they want, but why drag Vincent into it. People use him for their own interests.”
He isn’t accusing me outright, but his eyes don’t leave my face. He is talking about me. One of his fingers pokes at my email. [Gorgeous writing here — he is SO accusing her. You can feel it in your bones and you are so afraid right along with her. What’s going to HAPPEN??]
Warmth starts at my neck and rises to my temples. I am guilty of “using” Vincent. Jo, too. My story would not exist without the real story.
He continues. Now the false stories are increasing around Jo, he says. An Argentine film is being made about her. “What’s the first thing they’ll do?” the director says, “Take her clothes off.” He closes his eyes and grimaces.
I am still listening closely, and I am thinking, “Why am I here?” [BOOM — the true point of the piece. It’s about claiming her authority, her identity as a writer. We feel like WE could tell her. We want to say, ‘JOAN! I know why you are there!’]
Why did the nagging thought reoccur again and again for months to meet with this man. Why did I write and rewrite that email? What’s at stake? Do I want approval? Assurance? He is a guardian, a steward. Clearly, he loves Vincent and Jo and Theo, people he’s spent a lifetime reading and deciphering and pondering about their innermost thoughts and desires and heartbreak.
What is it that I’m here to hear? [Nice repetition]
I glance at my watch and my heart drops. Our 30 minutes are nearly up. Wildly, I realize I’ve barely breathed a word. [UGH — opportunity blown?? Or not??]
I slide the 3-inch-thick biography of Jo across the table toward the director. The day before, right after the speed train from Paris got us into Amsterdam, we’d made a beeline to the Van Gogh Museum so I could buy the biography before this meeting. (The book had been released during our European trip). In the museum shop, the attendant confirmed what I’d dreaded: the biography is only available in Dutch. So, that night, painstakingly using an iPhone app, I’d translated the biography title (“All for Vincent”) and the 26 chapter headings. At least I’d have a clue about the book contents. [I just want to hug Joan here. She cares SO MUCH. And she is NOT one of those bad people! Will this guy see that in time??]
I nudge the book. “Did Jo have any enemies?” My voice croaks.
His face relaxes. “No specific man, but many men.” He turns to the fly leaf and translates a quote from Jo: “It is so fine at the end of my life, after so many years of indifference, hostility even, from the audience against Vincent and his work, to feel that the fight has been won.” The director raises his eyes and we smile.
“She won the fight,” I say.
And then we start talking. [Tension resolved — it’s going to be okay!!! She has proven herself!]
I ask a question, then another, and another. We flip through pages of the book to photographs. A few times he admits he’d wondered about my question too, but hadn’t found the facts to answer it yet. My husband joins in with his own inquiries about the Van Gogh family and foundation. He and I share our adventure when two years ago we’d gone to see the second largest Van Gogh collection by the wealthy Helene Kroller-Mueller on her estate 90 minutes from Amsterdam. “Did Jo ever meet Helene?” I ask, for the women had lived at the same time early in the 20th century.
“Never!” the director exclaims. “By that time, Jo was a very wealthy woman, but lived frugally. In a tiny house. Helene wouldn’t have taken her stairs.”
We laugh.
I glance at my watch again. It’s an hour later! [She got so much more time than promised! Yay!] Hurriedly, I reach into my husband’s backpack for a small gift box. Inside is a man’s pen, the barrel is a beautiful Vincent van Gogh-like cobalt blue. Surprised, the director refuses it. [Tension!] “It’s small,” I say. “Like a gift from Jo. A gesture of thanks for your time?” He accepts the gift. [Resolution and another victory.]
A flurry of thank-you’s. Another heartfelt handshake. We slip down the stairs, get our umbrella and are back out in the rain. [She could have ended it here but all the emotional resolution is still to come.]
Why had I gone there?
Over the next day or so my husband and I recount the meeting. My husband assures me that he interpreted it as a message not to slander Jo and to be true to her character. This comforts me a bit, but I am still ruminating. After all, who am I to say I can write this story? The truth is I’m not sure at all about what I’m doing. I could have bitten off a bigger story than I have the ability to write. I’m no art historian. I’m still learning the very basic building blocks of writing craft. Maybe I’ve waited too long. There are countless reasons to give up. [It’s so true — she is so right. She is being so real. We feel this tension.]
Except that I think that I have something to say. [YES SHE DOES!] There is a “why” hidden in this story that I am trying to find. And, even as I write this, I know that sounds super trite. Maybe I thought the research director would tell me the why? Well, if I did, he didn’t.
That Sunday afternoon my husband and I have stuffed our dirty clothes into our suitcases. We have an early flight in the morning and I’m waiting for my husband to finish changing into a nice shirt for the last dinner of our European trip. [We feel the weariness of the journey… of the mission she was on….] I open up my iPhone to flip through email when I see the director’s name in my Inbox. My heart skips a beat. He’s had second thoughts. He will want me to stop.. [OH NO!]
I read: “I liked talking to you last Friday…Maybe I have been a bit too explicit in expressing my thoughts on the balance between facts and fiction. Of course you can write a good novel with free interpretations and suppositions, but I’m afraid I’ve seen too many artists overreaching themselves or getting carried away in worlds that are too far from the historical one. I wish you lots of inspiration. Please feel free to write me.” [BOOM!!!!!!!]
Tears spring to my eyes. [MINE TOO!!!!] Below the email is a cartoon picture, a friendly drawing. “Thank you for the pen!”
I smile and re-read the email slowly. This time I notice the subject line on his email: “Keep on writing.” [And there it is — the resolution to the point raised at the start.]
Perhaps that’s my why. [Brava, Joan! Sign me up to read this novel!]
