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Importance of Professional Writing
Skills in Business
Asif Anwar Follow
May 9, 2018 · 3 min read
Whether you are an owner of a corporate house or a manger, you must
have professional writing skills in order to convey your ideas and
suggestions properly. In each profession, there is writing work. If your
written content carries grammatical of factual errors, people will not
take your seriously. Professional writing skills help your peers,
colleagues or friends understand your message. In our world of social
media posting, texting, email communications, blogs and beyond,
good writing is essential to convey your points effectively.
Why to improve professional writing skills?
With time, the forms of writing have also changed. Blog writing is
completely different from news writing or press release writing. So,
people especially writers need to learn the different forms of writing.
Good writing skills are, therefore, valued in the workplace, and people
who are good writers appear to be more capable, intelligent,
responsible and credible. On the other hand, people who send emails
full of typos, poorly constructed sentences and grammatical errors are
not considered in the time of promotions and hikes.
You may Also Like: How to Improve Writing Skills
Professional writing skills ensure strong online presence
In this digitalized era, business houses need strong content marketing
strategy to get their brand recognized in the market. Online presence
works as one of the most important tools for marketing and lead
generation. Therefore, every corporate house needs a strong web
presence and excellent written marketing strategy.
How to improve your writing skills
You cannot improve your writing skills in a day, but a consistent effort
will help you to improve your writing skills day by day. While writing,
keep below points in mind.
Be clear
While writing, you must be clear what you want to convey and use
easy and simple words. Effective writing consists of words that are
clear, easy to understand and accessible to the audience. If you use
tough language, people will avoid reading your content.
Be concise
Try to convey your message in minimum words. You are not writing to
show your writing skills, in fact you are writing to pass the required
information to others. So, try to use minimum words as people are too
busy to wade through paragraphs to reach the important points. Make
your content scannable by using bullet points, heading and subheadings.
Be direct
Professional writing means convey your ideas directly. Confusing
contents will not only disliked, but also mar your reputation among
your clients, colleagues and partner companies. Many people read a
few starting lines to take action whether to complete it or not.
Get it touch with editors
Grammatical and factual errors not only mar your reputation, but also
not read by the readers. Try to get the content edited by editor in order
to find out and rectify grammatical errors. Google also does not like
grammatically incorrect content. You can hire content editing services
to remove factual and grammatical errors.
Conclusive Thoughts
Professional writing skills in business are mandatory, so you need to
learn the elements of professional writing. Professional writing is
completely different from ordinary writing, so you need to brush up
your writing skills. Polished writing skills not only help you get
generate leads, but also improve credibility.
If you need SEO content writing services, food writing, content editing
services, etc. among others do contact us. We have professionals, so
there is guarantee of quality and timely delivery of projects.
Annc Lamor!
few moments to say a few things about who he is and where he is from. Finally
it is the turn of this incredibly intense, angry guy nrimed Francis. “My name
is Francis,” he says. “No one calls me Francis-anyone here calls me Francis
and I’ll kill them. And another thing, I don’t like to be touched. Anyone
here ever tries to touch me, I’ll kill them,”at which point Warren Oates jumps
i n and says, “Hey-lighten up, Francis,”
This is not a bad line to have taped to the wall of y o u r office.
Say toyourself in the kindest possible way, Look, honey, all we’re going
to do for now is t o write a description of ihe river at sunrise, or the young
child swimming in the pool at the club, or the f r s t time the man sees the woman
he will marry.That is all we are going to do for now. We are just going to take
this bird by bird. But we are going to finish this one short assignment,
Shitty First Drajs
Now, practically even better news than that of short assignments is t h e idea
of shitty first drafts. All good writers write them. This is how rhey end up
w i t h good second drafts and terrific third drafts. People tend to look at suc­
cessful writers, writers who are getting their books published and maybe
even doing well financially. and think that they sit down a t their desks every
morning feeling like a million dollars, feeling great about who they are ani1
how m u c h d e n t they have and what a great story they have to tell; that they
take in a few deep breaths, push back their sleeves, roll their necks a few
times to get all the cricks out, and dive in, typing fully formed p a s s y c s as
[ast as a court reporter. But this is just t h e fantasy of t h e uninitiated. I know
some very great writers, writers you love who write beautifully and have
made a great deal of money, and not ant of them sits down routinely feeling
wildly enthusiastic and confident. Not one of them writes elegant first drafrs.
All right, one of them does, but we d o not like her very much. We do not
think that she has a rich inner life or that Cod likes her or can even stand
her. (Although when I mentioned this to my priest friend Tom, he said you
can safely assume you’ve created Cod in your own image when it turns out
that God hates all the same people you do.)
Very few writers really know what they are doing until they’ve dofie
it. Nor do they go about their business’ feeling dewy and thrilled. They do
not type a few stiff warm-up sentences and then find themselves bounding
along like huskies across the snow. O n e writer I know teJ1s me that he sits
down every morning and says to himself nicely, “It’s not like you don’t have
a choice, because you do-you can either type or kill yourself.“ We all often
feel like we are pulling teeth, even those writers whose prose ends up being
the most natural and fluid. The right words and sentences just do nor come
pouring out like ticker tape most of the time, Now, Muriel Spark is said to
.have felt that she was taking dictation from God every morning-sitting
there, one supposes, plugged into a Dictaphone,
typing away, humming, But
this is a very hostile and aggressive position. O n e might hope for bad things
t o .rain down on a person like this.
For me and most of the other writers I know, writing is not rapturous.
I n fact, the only way 1 can get anything written at all is to write really, really
shitty first drafts.
The first draft is the child’s draft, where you let it all pour out and then
e t i t romp,all over the place, knowing that no one is going to see i t and
thar you can shape it later. You just let this childlike part of you channel
whatever voices and visions come through and onto the page. If one of the
let her.
characters wants to say, “Well, so what, Mr. Poopy Pan.ts?,”you

N o one is going to see i t . i f the kid wants to get into really senttmental,
wrepy, emotional territory, you let him. J u s t get it all down on paper, because
there tniiy be something great in those six crazy pages that you would never
have gotten to by more rational, grown-up means. There may be some.
thing in t h e very last line of the very last paragraph on page six that you
jus t love, thar is so beautiful or wild that you now know what you’re sup­
posed to be writing about, more or less, or in what direction you might gob u t there was no way to get to this without first getting through the first
five and a half pages.’
I used to wr:te food reviews for Caf(hwrzh magazine before it folded, (My
writing food reviews had nothing to d o with the magazine folding, although
every single review did cause a couple of canceled subscriptions. Some read­
er’s took umbrage at my comparing mouiids of vegetable puree with various
ex-presidents’ brains.) These reviews always took w o days to write. First
I’d go to J. restaurant several times with a few opinionated, articulate friends
I:? cow. I’d sit there writing down everything anyone said that was at all inter­
e a i i n g o r Funny, T h e n on the following Monday l ‘ d sit down at my desk
with my notes, a n d try to write t h e review. Even a h e t I’d been doing this
To: yrdrs. panic would set i n . I’d try to write a lead, but instead I’d write a
CoLiplr OF dreadful sentences, x x them out, t r y again, x x everything out, and
t h e n t e e despair and worry settle on my chest like an x-ray apron. It’s over,
i d t!iiiik, c a l m l y . I ‘ m 1701 goii>gto b e able to get the m q i c to work this time.
i 111 riktnec!. !’in rhrough. I’m toast. Maybe, I’d think, I can get my old job
j;:ick .,.F (1 ilrrk-typist. Bur probahly nor. I’d ger up and study my teeth in
rile iii,rrui I’oI.,~while. Then I’d stop. reinembri. to breathe, make a few phone
calls, l h i t rhr kitchen and chow down. Eventually i’d go back and sit down
;I niy desk, and sigh i’or ten minutes. Finally I would pick u p my
ow-inch picture i’ranie, stare iilto i t as it’for the answer, and every time the
aiiswer would come: all 1 had ro do was to write a really shitty first draft of,
say, the opening paragraph. And no one was going to see it.
So I’d m r t writing without reining myself in, It was almost just typing,
j u s r making my fingers move. And the writing would be tcrriblr. I’d write a
lead paragraph that was a whole page, even though the entire review could
only be three pages long,and then I’d start writing u p descriptlons OF tl
food, one dish at a time, bird by bird, and the critics would be sitting on n
shoulders, commenting like cartoon characters. They’d be pretendlng to mot
or rolling their eyes at my overwrought descriptions, no matter bow hard
tried t o tone those descriptions down, no matter how consctous I wag of wh
a friend said to me gently in my early days of restaurant rewewing. “Annie
she said, “it is lust a piece of chkken. It is just a bit of cake.”
But because by then I had been writing for so long, I would event)
ally let myself trust the process-sort of, more o r less. I’d write a first dra
that was maybe twice as long as it should be, with a self-indulgent and bo
in5 beginning, stupefying descriptions of the meal, lots of quotes from
black-humored friends that made them sound more like the Manson gtr
than food lovers, and no ending to speak of. The whole thing would Le
long and incoherent and hideous that for the rest of the day I’d obsess ab01
getting creamed by a car before i could write a decent second draft, I’d won
that people would read what I’d written and believe that the accident hc
really been a suicide, that I had panicked because my talent was wanir
and my mind was shot.
The next day, though, I’d sit down, go through it all wth a colored pe
take out everything I possibly could, find a new lead somewhere on the se
ond page, figure out a kicky place to end it, and then write a second drai
It always turned out fine, sometimes even funny and weird and helpful i
go over it one more time and mail it in
Then, a month later, when i t was time for another revlew, the who
process woiild start again, complete with the fears that people would find rT
first draft before I could rewrite it
Almost all good writing begins wth terrible first efforts You qeed I
start somewhere. Start by getting something-anything-down on pape
A frlend of mine says that the first draft is the down draft-you J U S [ g e t
down. The second draft is the u p draft-you fix i t up. You try to Sdy WII
you have to say more accurately. And the third draft is the dental draft, whet
you check every tooth, to see if it’s loose o r cramped or decayed, or eve!
God help us, healthy,
What I’ve learned to d o when I sir down to worlc on a shitty first dra
is to quiet the voices in my head. First there’s the vinegar-llpped Redder Idad
who says primly, “Well, that> not very interesting, is i t ? ” And there L the em,
ciated German male who writes these Orwellian memos cletailing yo^
thought crimes, And there are y o u r parents, agonizing over your lack
loyalty and discretion; and there’s William Burroughs, dozing off or shoo
ing up because he h d s you as bold and articulate as a houseplant; and i
on. And there are also the dogs: let’s not forget the dogs, the dogs In the
pen who will surely hurtle and snarl their way out if you ever niop writin(
because writing is, for some of us, the latch that keeps the door of the pe
closed, keeps those crazy ravenous dogs contained,
George Saunders: what
writers really do when they
14 mins read
series of instincts, thousands of tiny adjustments, hundreds
of drafts … What is the mysterious process writers go
through to get an idea on to the page?
Master of a universe … Illustration by Yann Kebbi for
Many years ago, during a visit to Washington DC, my wife’s cousin
pointed out to us a crypt on a hill and mentioned that, in 1862, while
Abraham Lincoln was president, his beloved son, Willie, died, and
was temporarily interred in that crypt, and that the grief-stricken
Lincoln had, according to the newspapers of the day, entered the
crypt “on several occasions” to hold the boy’s body. An image
spontaneously leapt into my mind – a melding of the Lincoln
Memorial and the Pietà. I carried that image around for the next 20odd years, too scared to try something that seemed so profound, and
then finally, in 2012, noticing that I wasn’t getting any younger, not
wanting to be the guy whose own gravestone would read “Afraid to
Embark on Scary Artistic Project He Desperately Longed to Attempt”,
decided to take a run at it, in exploratory fashion, no commitments.
My novel, Lincoln in the Bardo, is the result of that attempt, and now I
find myself in the familiar writerly fix of trying to talk about that
process as if I were in control of it.
We often discuss art this way: the artist had something he “wanted to
express”, and then he just, you know … expressed it. We buy into
some version of the intentional fallacy: the notion that art is about
having a clear-cut intention and then confidently executing same.
The actual process, in my experience, is much more mysterious and
more of a pain in the ass to discuss truthfully.
A guy (Stan) constructs a model railroad town in his basement. Stan
acquires a small hobo, places him under a plastic railroad bridge,
near that fake campfire, then notices he’s arranged his hobo into a
certain posture – the hobo seems to be gazing back at the town. Why
is he looking over there? At that little blue Victorian house? Stan
notes a plastic woman in the window, then turns her a little, so she’s
gazing out. Over at the railroad bridge, actually. Huh. Suddenly, Stan
has made a love story. Oh, why can’t they be together? If only “Little
Jack” would just go home. To his wife. To Linda.
What did Stan (the artist) just do? Well, first, surveying his little
domain, he noticed which way his hobo was looking. Then he chose to
change that little universe, by turning the plastic woman. Now, Stan
didn’t exactly decide to turn her. It might be more accurate to say
that it occurred to him to do so; in a split-second, with no
accompanying language, except maybe a very quiet internal “Yes.”
He just liked it better that way, for reasons he couldn’t articulate, and
before he’d had the time or inclination to articulate them.
An artist works outside the realm of strict logic. Simply knowing
one’s intention and then executing it does not make good art. Artists
know this. According to Donald Barthelme: “The writer is that person
who, embarking upon her task, does not know what to do.” Gerald
Stern put it this way: “If you start out to write a poem about two dogs
fucking, and you write a poem about two dogs fucking – then you
wrote a poem about two dogs fucking.” Einstein, always the smartypants, outdid them both: “No worthy problem is ever solved in the
plane of its original conception.”
How, then, to proceed? My method is: I imagine a meter mounted in
my forehead, with “P” on this side (“Positive”) and “N” on this side
(“Negative”). I try to read what I’ve written uninflectedly, the way a
first-time reader might (“without hope and without despair”).
Where’s the needle? Accept the result without whining. Then edit, so
as to move the needle into the “P” zone. Enact a repetitive, obsessive,
iterative application of preference: watch the needle, adjust the
prose, watch the needle, adjust the prose (rinse, lather, repeat),
through (sometimes) hundreds of drafts. Like a cruise ship slowly
turning, the story will start to alter course via those thousands of
incremental adjustments.
The artist, in this model, is like the optometrist, always asking: Is it
better like this? Or like this?
The interesting thing, in my experience, is that the result of this
laborious and slightly obsessive process is a story that is better than I
am in “real life” – funnier, kinder, less full of crap, more empathetic,
with a clearer sense of virtue, both wiser and more entertaining.
And what a pleasure that is; to be, on the page, less of a dope than
Revising by the method described is a form of increasing the ambient
intelligence of a piece of writing. This, in turn, communicates a sense
of respect for your reader. As text is revised, it becomes more specific
and embodied in the particular. It becomes more sane. It becomes less
hyperbolic, sentimental, and misleading. It loses its ability to create a
propagandistic fog. Falsehoods get squeezed out of it, lazy assertions
stand up, naked and blushing, and rush out of the room.
Is any of this relevant to our current political moment?
Hoo, boy.
When I write, “Bob was an asshole,” and then, feeling this perhaps
somewhat lacking in specificity, revise it to read, “Bob snapped
impatiently at the barista,” then ask myself, seeking yet more
specificity, why Bob might have done that, and revise to, “Bob
snapped impatiently at the young barista, who reminded him of his
dead wife,” and then pause and add, “who he missed so much,
especially now, at Christmas,” – I didn’t make that series of changes
because I wanted the story to be more compassionate. I did it because
I wanted it to be less lame.
But it is more compassionate. Bob has gone from “pure asshole” to
“grieving widower, so overcome with grief that he has behaved
ungraciously to a young person, to whom, normally, he would have
been nice”. Bob has changed. He started out a cartoon, on which we
could heap scorn, but now he is closer to “me, on a different day”.
How was this done? Via pursuit of specificity. I turned my attention
to Bob and, under the pressure of trying not to suck, my prose moved
in the direction of specificity, and in the process my gaze became
more loving toward him (ie, more gentle, nuanced, complex), and
you, dear reader, witnessing my gaze become more loving, might
have found your own gaze becoming slightly more loving, and
together (the two of us, assisted by that imaginary grouch) reminded
ourselves that it is possible for one’s gaze to become more loving.
Or we could just stick with “Bob was an asshole,” and post it, and
wait for the “likes”, and for the pro-Bob forces to rally, and the antibarista trolls to anonymously weigh in – but, mean …
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