When it’s time to write a report, grant proposal, or strategic plan, most people focus on two elements: ideas and words.
Yet when I have a writing project on my desk, I actually spend quite a bit of time thinking about a third—and perhaps less obvious—element: the reader.
As I wrote in last week’s newsletter, in an age when “content creation” is edging out the act of writing, and when people are increasingly relying on AI to generate text, I worry that we are losing the capacity to empathize with the reader: an actual human being engaging with our text.
Thinking beyond your “audience”
In my mind, the concept of the reader is different from the vague idea of “audience,” which tends to be thought of in terms of broad, market-based demographics.
While I am mindful of my audience, I care the most about the reader. They are the ones who have chosen (or who have been asked, even required) to read something.
Words on the page don’t simply convey data. When you write, you extend an invitation to the reader to contemplate your ideas and, in many cases, to take action.
You can have the most brilliant ideas in the world, an ironclad business plan, an inspired research agenda. Yet it will be difficult to translate your ideas into action and bring on supporters unless you’ve given some dedicated, intentional time to think about your reader in very concrete terms.
How does one do this? Based on my own experiences as a writer, editor, and reader, I’ve come up with four general questions to get you started.
1. Why are they reading?
Is your reader stumbling upon your text by chance, or are they required to read it? Are they hoping that you will affirm something they already know, or do they need to be convinced of your position?
Consider, for example, the reader of your grant proposal—who presumably has little choice but to read and evaluate. When this is the case, be generous: lead your reader by the hand through clear and direct prose. Offer signposts along the way: state your objectives clearly and repeatedly, use headings and boldface strategically. You want your reader to stay with your text from beginning to end. Take care to ensure that they do not grow bored, impatient, confused, or resentful.
2. Under what conditions are they reading?
In one of my first newsletters, I offered guidance about sending e-mails to busy leaders, emphasizing the importance of understanding your leader’s e-mail habits. The same advice holds for longer texts. Here’s an example:
Years ago, when I worked for a surgical research group, we engaged an external strategic planning consultant. The consultant, who had little experience working in academic medicine, expressed frustration to me that few of the surgeons happened to read and respond to his e-mails. The mistake? He had sent lengthy e-mails with even longer pdf attachments, all of which required a full screen and uninterrupted time to read and digest. None of this took into account the actual conditions in which the typical surgeon was reading: on a smartphone, usually in a few found moments between other appointments.
You can’t control the circumstances under which someone will read your text. What you can control: length, structure, clarity, and technological requirements.
3. What knowledge and biases do they have?
While one commonly reads generic advice to tailor writing to a specialist or nonspecialist audience, these categories fail to capture the spectrum of experiences that a reader might bring to a given text.
Consider what your reader knows, and how. Perhaps your non-specialist reader has lived experience of a given problem. Two gender equality advocates could have very different cultural perspectives on the suitability of quotas or single-sex education, so take the time to explain your rationale and perspective. In higher education, an international panel of reviewers may need additional orientation to the specifics of how universities in your country are funded, or what work is actually required for a PhD: these are not universals, so don’t treat them as such.
4. What does the reader care about?
Most of us assume that the reader is mainly concerned with content and ideas.
Yet there is another underlying concern that most readers have, even if they’re not always aware of it: Is this work realistic? Is it feasible? Can this writer accomplish what they promise?
This hit home to me years ago, when I was working toward my PhD in music history and applying for dissertation research funding in a very crowded playing field. An acquaintance from another institution received nearly every grant and award he applied for—even though his research topic was fairly traditional.
At some point, I finally thought to ask him if he would share his proposals, since I was curious how he convinced organization after organization to fund his work.
His secret: practically every paragraph tied back to feasibility: his past research, his inquiries to archives, affiliations with local universities, and his work to date. At that moment, I realized that those reading his proposal cared less about innovation, and were principally concerned with ensuring that the funded research projects would be completed.
Writing as an act of empathy
These four questions might not apply to every situation. Perhaps you are writing for a diverse group of readers; it could be that you do not know whom you are writing for to begin with.
Yet even in these cases, take the time to imagine your reader—as a real person, rather than a faceless audience. In doing so, you will not only sharpen your writing, but also strengthen your connections with those who engage with your work.
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