How To Write Stuff That Actually Changes People (Without Being Annoying About It)

Dear Writer,

Let’s cut to it: nobody asked you to give them a pep talk.

They didn't open your article hoping you'd shout "You got this!" into their already overstimulated minds.

They didn't click “subscribe” for motivational speeches written in caps lock.
And they definitely didn’t come to the internet—home of doomscrolling and existential memes, for a life coach in paragraph form.

What they actually want?
They want to change.

They want to become someone new.

Smarter. Braver. Healthier. More creative. Less confused.

They want a personality transplant.

And you, dear writer, are one of the few people who can give it to them—without anesthesia or suspicious side effects.

So, how do you write in a way that actually changes people?

That reaches past the eye-rolls, bypasses the surface “nice read” compliments, and leaves them thinking, “Holy crap, I’m going to do something differently now”?

Let’s talk about it.

Pep talks are like cheap perfume—strong, fleeting, kind of offensive.

Pep talks work the way energy drinks do: temporarily useful, later regrettable.

They get people hyped for 15 minutes and leave them with the creative equivalent of a sugar crash.

Why?

Because most pep talks:

• Overpromise (“You can be unstoppable!”)

• Under-deliver (“Just believe in yourself!”)

• Assume people haven’t already tried believing in themselves, failed, and then stress-bought a doughnut.

Here’s the thing: your reader isn’t lazy.

They’re tired. They’re smart. They’ve heard it all before.

So if you come in shouting motivational nonsense in bold italics, they will quietly back away and unsubscribe.

Instead, give them something real. Tangible. Human.

Here are a few suggestions for typical pep talk style writing (I am guilty of writing like that too when I didn’t know any better).

I used to say:

“You’ve got this!”

Now I say:

“Here’s how I got through it, even though I thought I was a human dumpster fire on wheels.”

My favourite slogan was:

“You can do anything if you put your mind to it!”

Now I am wiser and a better communicator. So I say:

“This worked for me. It might not work for you. But it’s a place to start when everything feels like mush.”

I now show my bruises. I share your mess without shame. I speak from inside the struggle, not above it.

That’s how we earn trust. And trust is the only currency that buys change.

People change when they see themselves in the mirror you hold for them.

You’re not writing to perform.
You’re writing to reflect.

Your words are a mirror. And the magic isn’t in the mirror, it’s in what people see when they look into it.

So ask yourself:

• What secret does my reader quietly hold but never say out loud?

• What insecurity are they tired of hiding?

• What dream do they think is too ridiculous to admit?

Write to that.

Write like you see them. Like you’ve been where they are. Like you're sitting beside them at the kitchen table at 10 PM, both of you in your pajamas, eating cereal out of mugs and having a real conversation about why they haven’t written that damn book yet.

Give them words that say:

“You’re not broken. You’re just stuck. Here’s how I got unstuck. You can borrow my ladder.”

Drop the Guru voice. Talk like a real person.

You know the tone.

The “10X your life with this one mindset hack” guy.

The “Queen of Self-Worth” with a $997 masterclass on believing in yourself harder.

The productivity bro who thinks waking up at 4 AM makes him morally superior.

Don’t do that.

Don’t write like a guru. Write like a guide.

You don’t need to know everything. You just need to share what you’ve learned in a way that’s honest, useful, and slightly less robotic than an AI-generated TED Talk.

Here’s a litmus test:

Would you say this sentence out loud to a friend who’s going through a hard time?

If not, delete it. Rewrite it like you’re talking to someone you actually care about.

Be useful, but not in a “5 Steps to Fix Your Life” kind of way.

Here’s the part where I sound like every copywriting course ever and say: value matters.

But here’s the twist: people don’t need more tips. They need more truth.

Sure, give them strategies. Give them frameworks. But wrap them in humanity, not hard-sell logic.

Let’s say you’re writing about procrastination.

You could write:

“Here are 5 ways to beat procrastination using the Pomodoro technique, time blocking, and goal setting.”

Or you could write:

“Here’s why I’ve been staring at a blinking cursor for 40 minutes and pretending sorting my bookshelf is ‘research.’ Also: what helped me finally hit publish anyway.”

Guess which one hits harder?

The second one feels true. It’s useful because it’s personal.

People change when they feel understood, and they act when they feel capable. So give them both, recognition and direction.

Write for one person who’s almost given up.

Forget the imaginary “audience.” Forget trying to please the algorithm or appeal to thought leaders who might “respect your brand.”

Write for the one person who almost didn’t click.

The one who thinks they have given everything to solve their problem and got nowhere.

The one who’s this close to giving up, on their book, their project, their self-belief.

Write for them.

Say:

“I see you. I know this sucks. Here’s something small you can try. It helped me. It might help you.”

If you change that person’s mind? You’ve done more than the most viral pep talk ever could.

If you want to change people, let yourself be changed first.

The best writing isn’t from people who have it all figured out.

It’s from people who are figuring it out while they write.

You can’t change people if you’re not willing to be changed by the process of writing.

That’s where the magic lives.

In the messy middle. In the questions without answers. In the drafts that scare you because they’re too honest.

Your transformation fuels theirs.

So don’t be afraid to write something that makes you wince. That makes you think, “Can I really say that?”

If it’s true, say it.

If it’s kind, keep it.

If it’s useful, even better.

The “respect” you want will come. But not from being “right.”

Some writers chase respect like it’s a blue checkmark.

They want to sound credible.

They want to be taken seriously.

So they edit out all the weird, all the warmth, all the realness, and end up sounding like a Wikipedia article about writing a book.

Don’t trade connection for perfection.

Real respect, the kind that keeps readers coming back, is built when they feel like you get them. When they trust you. When they see themselves in your words and think,

“Finally. Someone said it.”

So write to change people. Not to impress them.

And ironically, that’s the most impressive thing you can do.

You’re not just writing to inspire. You’re writing to transfer courage.

People don’t need another cheerleader.

They need someone to walk with them to the edge of the cliff, look down, and say,

“It’s scary. But you’re ready. I’ll be here when you land.”

That’s what great writing does.

It’s not noise. It’s not hype. It’s not just a feel-good moment with a call-to-action tacked on the end.

It’s a personality transplant.

It gives your reader a new voice in their head. One that’s calmer. Clearer. Wiser. Kinder.

Yours.

So stop giving pep talks.
Start giving them you.

Write bravely. Change gently.

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I started this post as a letter written to one of my true fans

Susan Harley

, who told me one of her biggest struggles is to “improve her writing on Substack.”

So I wrote this article directly to her. At first, it said “Dear Susan.” Later, I swapped it for “Dear Writer.” And you know what? That small shift made the whole piece feel more personal.

If you take nothing else from this newsletter, tattoo this one on the hem of your T-shirt: Always address your reader directly at the start of your piece. Preferably by name. You can change it or remove it later—but starting that way? It makes your writing warmer, sharper, and way more human.

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That’s all from me this week.

Do me a favour please, spread the word about Author Circle.

As always, thanks for reading.