Why Writing Like You’re Sending an Email Changed Everything

I was in the middle of writing a quarterly report when my manager walked past my desk and stopped.

“Who are you writing this for?” she asked.

I looked up, confused. “The executive team. Same as always.”

She leaned against my cubicle wall. “Right. But who’s going to read it?”

“Well… hopefully the executive team.”

“Have you ever seen anyone actually read one of these reports all the way through?”

I hadn’t. In three years of writing quarterly reports, I’d never once witnessed someone read past the executive summary. Most people skimmed the first page during the meeting where I presented it, nodded politely, and moved on.

“So why are you writing like you’re authoring a textbook?” my manager asked. “Write it like you’re sending me an email explaining what happened this quarter. I’ll actually read that.”

It was one of those comments that sounds simple but cracks something open.

I’d been writing corporate reports for years, following the style I thought was expected: formal, dense, impersonal. Lots of passive voice. Sentences like “It was determined that optimization of the workflow would result in improved efficiency metrics.” Nobody talked like that. Nobody thought like that. But we all wrote like that.

That afternoon, I rewrote my executive summary as if I were emailing a colleague I respected. I used “we” instead of “the team.” I wrote “we found” instead of “it was determined.” I cut every unnecessary word. I explained things the way I’d explain them if someone asked me about it over lunch.

The response was immediate. My manager read the whole thing. She forwarded it to her boss with a note: “Actually readable.” Three executives mentioned it in meetings. One asked if I could help his team write their reports differently.

All I’d done was write like a human being talking to another human being.

When I started writing my book two years later, I forgot this lesson completely.

The Voice That Disappears

I wrote the first three chapters of my book in what I thought of as “author voice.” Formal. Careful. Polished. Every sentence structured properly. No contractions. No casual language. Nothing that might sound too conversational or unprofessional.

I sent those chapters to a friend who agreed to give me feedback. She’s not a writer, just someone I trust to be honest.

Her response came back in one sentence: “This doesn’t sound like you.”

I was offended at first. Of course it didn’t sound like me talking casually. This was a book. Books required a certain level of sophistication and formality. I was being professional.

But she pushed back. “When you explain this stuff to me in person, I understand it immediately and it’s interesting. In this writing, I’m lost by the second paragraph and kind of bored. Where did your actual voice go?”

I read the chapters again, trying to hear them in my head. She was right. I sounded stiff. Distant. Like I was trying to sound smart instead of trying to be clear.

I’d made the same mistake I made in corporate writing before my manager’s comment. I was writing for some imagined standard of what “good writing” should sound like instead of writing the way I actually think and communicate.

The Email Test

That night, I tried something. I opened my email and wrote to my friend as if I were explaining the concept from chapter one. No planning. No outline. Just typing the way I’d explain it if she’d asked me about it over coffee.

I wrote: “So here’s the thing about productivity that nobody tells you—it’s not about doing more stuff. It’s about doing the right stuff and not feeling guilty about the rest. Most people think they have a time management problem. They don’t. They have a priority problem.”

I kept going, writing the way I’d talk. Using contractions. Starting sentences with “and” and “but” when it felt natural. Asking rhetorical questions. Breaking imaginary rules I’d absorbed about proper writing.

After twenty minutes, I had three paragraphs that explained the concept more clearly than my entire formal chapter had.

The difference was stark. The email version had energy. It moved. It sounded like someone talking to you, not at you.

I copied those paragraphs into a new document and kept writing in that voice. An hour later, I had a draft that actually sounded like me.

This became my process. Whenever I got stuck or felt my writing becoming stiff, I’d switch to my email program and write to a specific person—my friend, my sister, a former colleague. I’d explain whatever I was trying to write as if they’d just asked me about it.

Then I’d copy that email-voice writing into my manuscript.

What Makes Email Voice Work

Email voice works because it’s rooted in actual communication between real people. When you write an email to someone you know, you automatically adjust your language for clarity and connection. You’re trying to make them understand, not trying to impress them with your vocabulary.

Several things happen naturally in email that we often lose in formal writing:

You use simpler words. Not because you’re dumbing anything down, but because you’re optimizing for understanding. In emails, you write “use” instead of “utilize.” You write “buy” instead of “purchase.” You choose the clear word over the impressive word because you want your message to land.

You write shorter sentences. Long, complex sentences work fine when you’re reading carefully with full attention. But people don’t read emails that way. They scan. They skim. They read while distracted. So email sentences tend to be shorter and punchier. This same principle applies to any writing meant to be read on screens—which is most writing now.

You get to the point faster. Emails don’t have time for lengthy preambles. You say what you need to say. This directness makes writing clearer and more engaging.

You sound like yourself. This is the big one. In emails to people you know, you write in your natural voice. Your personality comes through. Your sense of humor surfaces. Your characteristic way of explaining things shows up.

All of these qualities make writing more readable and more engaging.

Breaking the Academic Hangover

Most of us learned to write in school, and school writing has specific conventions that don’t serve us well outside academic contexts.

In school, we learned to write formal essays with thesis statements, topic sentences, and carefully structured arguments. We learned to avoid first person. We learned to sound objective and detached. We learned that good writing meant complex sentences and sophisticated vocabulary.

These conventions make sense in academic contexts. They don’t make sense when you’re writing a book, a blog post, or anything meant to connect with actual readers.

I call this the “academic hangover”—the writing habits we absorbed in school that we carry into contexts where they don’t belong.

The academic hangover shows up in several ways:

We overuse passive voice. “It was discovered” instead of “we discovered.” “Mistakes were made” instead of “I made mistakes.” Passive voice creates distance between the writer and the reader. It makes writing feel impersonal and dull.

We avoid contractions. We write “do not” instead of “don’t” and “it is” instead of “it’s.” This makes writing sound formal and stiff. Contractions are how people actually talk. Using them makes your writing sound more natural.

We use unnecessarily complex words. We write “commence” instead of “start” and “endeavor” instead of “try.” We think this makes us sound smart. It usually just makes us sound pretentious.

We bury our main point. Academic writing often builds to a conclusion. You present evidence, develop an argument, and finally state your thesis. But readers of books and articles want to know where you’re going from the beginning. They want the main point upfront, then the explanation.

Breaking these habits felt uncomfortable at first. I’d write a sentence with a contraction and feel like I was being too casual. I’d start a sentence with “and” and hear my high school English teacher’s voice telling me that wasn’t allowed.

But slowly, I learned to trust my email voice. The voice that my friend said “sounded like me.” The voice that people actually responded to.

The Specific Person Technique

Here’s the technique that helped me most when I was learning to write in a more natural voice:

Before every writing session, I’d identify one specific person I was writing to. Not a demographic. Not an audience segment. One actual person I knew.

Sometimes it was my sister. Sometimes it was my former colleague David. Sometimes it was my friend Rachel who asked me questions about productivity all the time.

I’d picture that person sitting across from me. Then I’d write as if I were talking directly to them.

This technique did something crucial: it made my writing conversational without being sloppy. I wasn’t writing the way I’d text or the way I’d talk to myself. I was writing the way I’d explain something to someone I respected and wanted to help understand.

The specific person technique also helped me know when I was explaining something clearly. If I couldn’t imagine my chosen person following the explanation, I wasn’t being clear enough.

There’s a test I still use: after I write a section, I read it out loud and ask myself, “Would I actually say this to Rachel?” If the answer is no—if it sounds too formal or stilted or unlike how I’d actually talk—I rewrite it.

When Formal Voice Makes Sense

I’m not arguing that all writing should sound like an email. There are contexts where more formal writing is appropriate.

Legal documents need precise language and formal conventions. Academic papers have standards that serve important functions in scholarly communication. Technical documentation requires specific terminology and structure.

But most writing—especially writing meant to teach, persuade, or connect—benefits from a more conversational approach.

The question isn’t “Should this be formal or casual?” The question is “What serves my reader best?”

If your goal is to help someone understand something, clarity beats formality every time. If your goal is to connect with readers and hold their attention, conversational voice beats academic voice.

I write nonfiction books about productivity and creativity. My goal is to share ideas in a way that people can actually use. That goal is better served by writing clearly and conversationally than by writing formally and impressively.

Your Voice Is Already There

The biggest realization for me was this: I didn’t need to develop a writing voice. I already had one.

My natural voice—the way I explained things to friends, colleagues, and family—was perfectly good. I just needed to stop abandoning it when I sat down to write.

You probably have the same experience. When you explain something you know well to someone who asks about it, you’re probably clear, engaging, and natural. You use the right words. You give good examples. You explain things in an order that makes sense.

That’s your writing voice. You don’t need to develop it or find it. You need to stop editing it out of your writing.

The way you talk when you’re trying to help someone understand something—that’s the voice your writing needs.

Making the Shift

If you want to write in a more natural voice, here’s what helped me make that shift:

Start by writing an actual email. Pick someone specific and write them an email explaining whatever you’re trying to write about. Don’t think of this as a draft of your piece. Think of it as just an email. Get your explanation into that format first.

Then use that email as your starting point. Copy it into your document and expand from there. You’ll find that the core explanation is already clear because you wrote it in your natural voice.

Read your writing out loud. This is the single most effective way to catch when you’re slipping into overly formal or academic voice. If you can’t imagine yourself actually saying the words you’ve written, rewrite them into words you would say.

Give yourself permission to break the rules you learned in school. You can start sentences with conjunctions. You can use contractions. You can write sentence fragments when they serve a purpose. These aren’t mistakes—they’re tools that make your writing sound more natural.

Remember that clarity is more important than sounding impressive. Your readers don’t want to be impressed by your vocabulary. They want to understand what you’re saying. Choose the clear word over the fancy word every time.

The Freedom in Simplicity

When I finally gave myself permission to write the way I talk—to use my email voice instead of my imagined “author voice”—writing became easier and more enjoyable.

I wasn’t performing anymore. I wasn’t trying to sound like someone else’s idea of what a writer should sound like. I was just explaining things I knew in the clearest way I could.

Readers responded to that authenticity. The feedback I get most often is some variation of “This feels like you’re talking directly to me.”

That’s exactly what I’m trying to do. I’m not writing at you from some elevated position. I’m sitting across from you, explaining something I’ve learned, in the same voice I’d use if we were having coffee.

That’s what email voice gave me. Not just a technique, but permission to sound like myself.

You already know how to communicate clearly. You do it every day in emails, texts, and conversations. You don’t need to learn some special “writing voice.” You just need to stop abandoning your natural voice when you write.

Write like you’re sending an email to someone you want to help. That’s not being casual or unprofessional. That’s being clear, direct, and human.

And that’s what makes writing connect.