My favorite page from my favorite book on writing

When I turned 23, my friend Meghana gave me a copy of her favorite writing book. When I moved to DC, I forgot to pack it, so I bought the 2nd edition, which isn't nearly as good. I've been craving the guidance from the first chapter, Thinking Well, and now that I'm back at my parents' house, I finally have it.

Here's page 5 of Writing With Style, Third Edition, by John R. Trimble:

All writing is communication. But most writing hopes to go further. It hopes to make the reader react in certain ways—with pleased smiles, nods of assent, stabs of pathos, or whatever. 

So we can say, generally, that writing is the art of creating desired effects. 

Now for an essay writer, the chief desired effect is persuasion. Suppose you are that writer. You want your readers to buy two things: your ideas and you, their source. That is, you want them to view your ideas as sound and interesting, and to view you as smart, informed, direct, and companionable. (All of these things, of course, are desired effects.) If you don't persuade them to accept you, it's doubtful that you'll persuade them to buy the ideas you're proffering. We buy from people we like and trust—it's human nature.

The big question, then, is how to win readers? Here are four essentials:

1. Have something to say that's worth their attention.
2. Be sold on its validity and importance yourself so you can pitch it with conviction.
3. Furnish strong arguments that are well supported with concrete proof. 
4. Use confident language—vigorous verbs, strong nouns, and assertive phrasing. 

While that looks like a pretty full recipe for successful writing, it isn't. Even if we exclude sheer artfulness, one thing is still missing—and almost always is. The ultimate way we win readers is by courteously serving them—that is, satisfying their needs. An experienced writer knows that to serve well is to sell well; equally, to sell well is to serve well. They are complementary activities. The means are inseparable from the ends. 

The writer, for all practical purposes, does not exist without the assent of his readers, who have the power to shut him off at whim. This fact of life makes pleasing them absolutely critical. But that's only fair. If we're going to ask them to give us their time and attention, then we're in their debt, not the other way around, we must be prepared to repay their kindness with kindness of our own. Beyond pleasing them simply to square debts and keep them reading, though, there's also the practical necessity of pleasing them in order to persuade them. Samuel Butler long ago remarked, "We are not won by arguments that we can analyze, but by tone and temper, by the manner which is the man himself." I don't wholly agree with that, but it's certainly close to the truth. A pleasing manner surely makes one's arguments themselves seem pleasing because it dresses them in an aura of reasonableness.