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The doctor cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but I have bad news.”

He paused, looking down at the floor. He looked back up at her. He started to say something and then stopped, looking back down at the floor.

That’s when Pat began to cry.

She’d argued with herself about even coming to the doctor’s office. Her baby was a year old, and he hadn’t started crawling yet. He tried, yes, dragging his legs behind him as he struggled to make it just a few feet on the floor, but it didn’t look right. Everyone told her that she was worrying over nothing, and maybe she was, but she told herself that she would take him to the doctor, just to be safe . . .

“Your son has a neuromuscular disorder called Spinal Muscular Atrophy,” the doctor said. “It’s a form of muscular dystrophy that primarily affects children.”

Pat was speechless. Everyone had told her she was silly. She had hoped she was wrong, prayed she was wrong, but still

In a recent Copyblogger post discussing how the king of content is being slowly usurped by the Crown Prince of Context, author Larry Brooks referenced the remarkable opening scene of Quentin Tarantino’s new movie Inglorious Basterds.

There are few writers like Tarantino, and though his verbal carpet bombs and kinetic escalation of violence aren’t for everyone, there is no doubt that the dude follows his muse. Those who love him will eagerly wait in lines wrapped around the block to show their support.

In short, Tarantino sells it every time. And by it, I mean an ironclad belief in the worlds he’s created.

On Larry’s post, a great conversation continued downstairs in the comments, where a second Tarantino clip was referenced, the “Sicilian Scene” from True Romance. Though I love both movies, I was inspired to write this post by a scene from Tarantino’s earliest feature, Reservoir Dogs.

Selling it

In Reservoir Dogs, Tarantino assembles a marvelous scene, on the surface about gaining the confidence of the men the protagonist plans to double cross. Closer inspection reveals the scene for what it really is, a seven-and-a-half-minute love letter to the art of storytelling.

The film itself is about a bank robbery gone bad, though Tarantino manages to turn the adage, “show not tell” upside down by showing only a few seconds of the robbery, while his characters sit around for the rest of the film swapping one slice of story at a time.

Spoiler alert: The hero of the tale is Mr. Orange, an undercover cop, played by the superb Tim Roth, masquerading as a fellow bank-robbing miscreant. The success of his cover hinges on convincing the other criminals of his authenticity. He does this, in part, by reciting “The Commode Story,” a fictitious anecdote that is not only amusing, but also easy to sell to the other delinquents because it deals with a dicey encounter with the law.

It is in the Commode Story where Tarantino becomes the teacher.

It’s all in the details

“An undercover cop’s gotta be Marlon Brando . . . . you gotta be naturalistic as hell — ’cause if you ain’t a good actor — you a bad actor, and bad actors is bullshit in this job.”

It’s the details that sell your story, according to Officer Holdaway, played by Randy Brooks, delivering lines obviously written for a Sam Jackson Tarantino could not yet afford.

Holdaway instructs Mr. Orange on the finer details of selling the story.

“You’ve got to memorize what’s important so you can make the rest your own.”

He then continues to expand his point with something Copyblogger has frequently preached:

“Remember, this story’s about you and how you perceive the events that went down.”

He wraps up with a version of the same sage writing advice Brian’s been posting for years:

“The only way to do that is to keep saying it and saying it and saying it and saying it.”

As the scene unfolds, we watch as Mr. Orange rehearses the story in his room with slowly mounting confidence until he owns the narrative enough to deliver it without flinching in a smoky bar populated by criminals, any one of whom could end him in an instant.

Eventually, we find ourselves breathlessly watching as the Commode Story unfolds via flashback and Mr. Orange’s voiceover.

We watch as a man packing massive amounts of marijuana finds himself entering a bathroom containing not one, not two, but four police officers and a K-9 unit. As the camera pans the officer’s narrowed eyes, the dog’s fervent attention, and follows Mr. Orange as he tries to casually go about his business without getting busted, the narration adds to the palpable sense of danger.

We feel the tension even though we know Mr. Orange has manufactured every word and was never actually in danger of being busted.

Why?

Because Mr. Orange owns the story.

Own your story

The more you write about a particular topic or in a specific genre, the tighter your work will naturally become. Your expertise will grow. Better words will come to you, and they’ll show up more quickly.

If you write about widgets, write the hell out of your widget copy.

Loving your widget is a great start, but you also have to know your widget inside out and upside down. You must know every surface, every detail. Knowledge and passion will shine through the copy and accentuate the differences between you and everyone else writing about widgets.

If you want to be a great writer, you’ve got to own the story. Fiction or sales copy, know your story like nobody else and you will write words that no one else can touch.

About the Author: Sean Platt is a direct response copywriter and independent publisher. Follow him on Twitter.

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The Quentin Tarantino Guide to Creating Killer Content

Let’s play pretend for a minute, shall we?

Let’s say you live in an old Italian Market. On your rounds as a door-to-door zucchini salesman, you drop in on two tailors’ shops that are quite different.

The first is run by Roberto Andolini, a very skilled tailor who has a ridiculous mustache and always greets you warmly, asking about your kids and your business. Roberto has a large collection of fountain pens and is always telling you about his latest acquisition.

Each time you see him, he cracks the same joke about making sure to keep the pens away from the clothes he’s tailoring. And each time he tells it, he’s so amused by his own hilarity that he uncorks a big, billowing laugh. You like Roberto very much.

The second shop on your route is Tailor, Inc., run by John Smith. (His name used to be Giovanni Smitto, but he had it legally changed.)

John is also a very good tailor, but he’s incredibly boring. He never rises from his sewing machine, and all he’ll talk about is hemming and fabric types. If you’re lucky, sometimes he’ll tell you about thread.

Got the mental picture? Two tailors of equal ability, one of whom is personable and warm and one of whom is slightly less interesting than a can of hairspray. Now, pretend you have a suit that needs taking in. Who do you go to?

Both tailors are good, so you do what your gut tells you to do. You go to Andolini, because you like him.

It’s the oldest, most obvious sales principle in the world: people do business with people they like. Yet the internet is filled with boring, dry text unworthy of even John Smith’s personality.

But listen up, because you can’t afford to write boring copy. Doing so is a great way to lose your readers to the Andolinis of the world.

What you know is a commodity

Let’s get this unpleasant truth out in the open. The world is far too big for your knowledge to be truly special.

If you write about gardening, there are hundreds of millions of competing pages on the Net. Even if you drill down into a niche (say, “gardening for seniors”), there are still hundreds of thousands of competitors.

The law of averages says that many of those competitors will be good at what they do. In fact, quite a few are even going to be excellent.

This means that even if you’re excellent in your niche-within-a-niche, you’re still just one among thousands.

“Being excellent” is not a USP. It can never be enough to define you. Yet, “trying to be the best” is the way that most people online hope to improve readership and gain popularity.

Yes, you should always seek to improve. Yes, being good at what you do matters.

But no, it’s not enough. Not by a long shot.

To be popular, you need to be likable. For the most part, you’ll need to rely on your writing (whether as text, in a podcast, or on video) to do that. But luckily, learning to write personably is actually more about unlearning how to write like a stiff.

Try these tips:

1. Write like a real person

Naomi Dunford of IttyBiz is known for her legendary foul mouth. In fact, Brian Clark recently described her as a “Tourette’s survivor.” And I’ve been known to let the occasional curse word fly myself.

Naomi swears because it’s how she talks in person. I swear because I happen to believe it makes everything funnier. (Picture Donald Duck cursing inventively right now. Hilarious, right?)

I’m not saying you should swear, especially if it doesn’t mesh with your personality. But don’t hide who you are in an attempt to sound “professional.” If you normally pepper your speech with quaint Southern expressions, do the same in your writing. Genuine speech conveys authenticity and allows your best audience to find you and develop a connection.

2. Make it personal

Marketing consultant Marcia Hoeck (who, as it happens, is also my mother) found that when she added personal details to her business’s blog and e-zine, she got a significant increase in clicks and responses.

She wasn’t writing essays about personal issues, but she’d occasionally incorporate anecdotes about her dogs or grandkids into her articles. She might explain how she was conducting a teleclass from our house, but had to hide in my basement to do so because the baby was in a noisy mood that day.

Adding personal details to your copy doesn’t make you look unprofessional. It humanizes you, making you more than just a member of the faceless horde.

3. Be interesting

My own topic is technology, but I started blogging as a humor writer. In fact, I picked up a lot of readers by getting a reputation for funny one-liners on Twitter.

Thanks to this, I’ve become “the funny technology guy.” Even though I’m teaching the same stuff as thousands of others, readers come to me because I’m usually somewhat amusing even when discussing dry topics.

If you can make someone smile a little when discussing the ins and outs of domain forwarding, they’re likely to come to you when they want to know more about, say, how to manage their web hosting service.

Again, you don’t have to be funny when you write. (In fact, if it doesn’t come naturally to you, you should probably use humor sparingly, if at all.) But you do have to be interesting.

Talk about sports teams you like, and why other teams suck. Infuse knitting know-how into a post about salesmanship. Refer to your hatred of Ashton Kutcher in a post about how to do affiliate marketing.

In other words, say what’s on your mind. You’re a normal, well-rounded human being who doesn’t think about one topic 24/7. So be that person in your writing as well. When we find true humanity online, we tend to flock to it.

We’re taught in school that the purpose of writing is to clearly convey a message, or to overcome objections, or to persuade. And all of that is important.

But writing isn’t just about conveying information. It’s about communication. The minute you start being more of a person and less of a knowledgeable robot, the easier it will be for your audience to find you, trust you, and like you.

About the Author: Johnny B. Truant makes technology simple for anyone at Learn To Be Your Own V.A. and makes life stupid at The Economy Isn’t Happening.

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