Write Like You Talk, But Better

I used to think good writing meant sounding like Virginia Woolf—elegant, introspective, and impossibly profound.

You know, winding sentences, layers of meaning, and metaphors so delicate they felt like silk in a breeze. This was the phase where I’d reread my work and think, “Is this me or my English teacher in disguise?”

It certainly was not me. I don’t say “moreover” in real life. And yet, there I was, “moreovering” my way through my articles like I was going for a tenure at Oxford.

Then one day, I stumbled upon the wild idea that maybe—just maybe—your writing should sound like you. Not the corporate-drone version of you who apologizes in emails for things that aren’t your fault.

But there’s a catch: you can’t just write like you talk and hope it lands. You have to write like you talk—but better.

Like the version of you who tells great stories at brunch. The you who gets animated, swears occasionally, and uses analogies that somehow involve both IKEA furniture and emotional breakdowns.

That’s the voice your readers will trust.
That’s the writing they’ll come back for.

First, let’s address the fear of sounding like a human

Many new writers, like me, are terrified of being “unprofessional.”

You know who’s not worried about being professional?

People with actual professionalism—surgeons, airline pilots, and possibly that one barista who remembers your order and your dog’s name.

The rest of us—especially if we’re writing online to attract readers, clients, or a cult following—need to lean into connection. And nothing builds connection like writing that sounds like it was written by an actual person and not an AI trained on legal disclaimers and press releases.

So what does “write like you talk, but better” even mean?

Let’s break it down.

Start with your natural voice.

Read your writing aloud. If it makes you cringe, congratulations—you are self-aware.

Now ask yourself: would I say this to a friend over coffee? If the answer is no, that’s a red flag waving like it's trying to flag down a passing taxi.

Real-life, you might say:

“I had a full-on meltdown trying to format an image in Substack, and yes, I felt like a f**king moron crying at mid-night. I was so bloody tired.

But writing-you might type:

“I encountered difficulties with the publishing platform, leading to emotional distress.”

I’m begging you. Set that second sentence on fire and throw its ashes into the sea.

Write like you’d tell a story. Use contractions. Drop a metaphor. Throw in that weird turn of phrase your cousin finds funny, but your accountant finds concerning.

That’s your voice. Start there.

Then edit like a serial killer with a red pen.

Here’s where the better part comes in.

Good talkers ramble. They interrupt themselves. They go on long tangents about goat yoga for no reason.

Good writers? They clean that mess up—after they’ve let it pour out.

The first draft should sound like you with a glass of wine and no filter. The second draft is you sober, clear-eyed, and wielding the delete key like it owes you money.

Ask:

• Is this sentence doing something useful?

• Does this anecdote actually serve the point?

• Would I keep reading if this weren’t mine?

If you’re bored by your own writing, trust me, your reader’s already left to scroll Instagram Reels of people organizing their fridge.

Be funny, but not frenzied.

Yes, bring your quirks. Yes, let your personality shine. But know the line between clever and chaotic.

A helpful rule: if a reader has to stop and decode your joke, metaphor, or obscure reference to a 2003 cult film, they’re not impressed—they’re tired.

Use humor and color, but always in service of clarity.

Think: “delightful dinner party conversation.”

Not: “that one friend who turns every story into a Broadway audition and somehow ends up doing the worm on your kitchen floor.”

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Nodding along?

There’s plenty more where that came from inside Author Circle.

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Clarity is king, but personality is queen and she's the one with the real power.

Some writing advice is obsessed with placing clarity above all else. That’s fine if you’re writing safety instructions for skydiving. ("Pull the cord. No, the other cord.")

But most of us aren’t writing to instruct—we’re writing to engage. And people engage with personality.

If clarity is a clean white plate, your voice is the meal. And unless your audience is deeply into porcelain, they’re not sticking around just for the plate.

So yes, be clear. But don’t bleach out your flavor in the name of being concise. Keep the zing. Keep the sass. Keep that slightly deranged analogy about sea cucumbers if it makes the point land.

Your weird is your superpower.

You know that odd way you describe things? The one where your partner says, “Wait, what did you just say?”—keep that. That’s the gold.

I once described writing a book as “like doing brain surgery on yourself with gardening gloves while blindfolded and underwater.” That image is dramatic, possibly medically unsound, and also memorable.

People don’t quote dry explanations. They quote the bits that make them laugh, gasp, or yell “YES!” loud enough to scare the cat.

So stop sanding down your edges. Weird is sticky. Sticky gets remembered.

Respect the reader, but don’t be afraid to nudge them.

You can write with humor, personality, and flair—and still be deeply respectful of your reader.

Respect doesn’t mean sucking up. It means giving them something worth reading.

It means:

• Making your point clearly.

• Being generous with your stories and insights.

• Knowing when to wrap it up before they check their inbox “real quick.”

Talk to them like they’re smart—but also like they’re your friend. Because they are. Or they could be. Or they might become your next client, subscriber, or fan if you stop writing like you swallowed a policy manual.

Still unsure? Try this Litmus test.

Here’s a handy tool I use when editing my work:

“Would I actually say this to someone I like?”

If the answer is no, I revise it.

If the answer is yes, I keep it.

If the answer is “I’d say it, but only while wearing a cape and quoting Latin,” then I sleep on it.

And lastly, you’re not for everyone—and that’s an excellent news.

Trying to sound neutral so everyone likes you is like serving flavorless soup at a dinner party and hoping no one complains.

The truth is, people don’t fall in love with bland. They fall in love with specific. With voice. With you.

So yes, write like you talk—but better. Sharper. Funnier. With fewer ums and no weird throat clearing noises.

Let your readers hear you. Not some imaginary “writer version” of you, but the one who makes them smile, think, and occasionally snort-laugh into their coffee.

That’s the voice they’ll follow.
That’s the writing they’ll remember.

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That’s all from me today.

As always, thanks for reading.