Includes 12 done-for-you email templates
An inventory item. True, checkable, and pointed at the product rather than at the person reading.
Headlines derived from the belief rather than from the product, bullets that point at the reader, buttons that say what happens next, and a cut list for everything that sounds like effort. Formulas are copyable, with the fill-ins marked; the worked rewrites are invented for this guide and labelled as such.

Copy that will not come is almost always a thinking problem wearing a writing problem’s clothes. Six lines fix it, and they take about ten minutes.
The load-bearing pair is the third and fourth line: what the reader believes today, and what they would have to believe for the action to be reasonable. The distance between those two sentences is the page. If it is short, you are writing a reminder and the page can be short too. If it is long, you have an argument to make and no headline formula will shorten it.
READER [one person, described by situation rather than demographic] ARRIVES FROM [the ad, email or post — and the exact sentence it used] BELIEVES NOW [what they take to be true today] MUST BELIEVE [the one idea that makes the action reasonable] THE ASK [the single action this page exists for] PROOF I HAVE [what I can actually show — not what I wish I had]
Every line is something you would otherwise decide accidentally, sentence by sentence, halfway through a draft. Deciding them first is what makes the draft fast — and it is why the second line matters as much as the rest: copy that ignores where the reader came from restarts an argument they were already halfway through.
The second line — where they arrived from — is the one people skip, and it is the cheapest improvement available on most pages. A reader who clicked a specific sentence is expecting that sentence to continue. Give them the same words at the top of the page and the first two seconds stop being a test of whether they are in the right place.
The brief also tells you which page you are writing. Sales page or landing page covers that decision, and the page anatomy covers where each of these pieces goes once they are written.
Not a description of the product, not the name of the offer, and not a clever line that has to be explained by the sentence underneath it. The belief from line four of the brief, said in as few words as it survives.
Two tests decide whether a headline is finished. The first: would this sentence be equally true on a competitor’s page? If yes, it is a category description rather than a headline. The second: can the body of the page actually deliver what this promises? A headline the page cannot support is not ambitious, it is a refund request with a delay built in.
The formulas below are structures, not sentences. Fill the brackets from the brief, then rewrite until it sounds like a person said it. Write six or eight candidates before you judge any of them — the first headline out of anybody is the obvious one, and the obvious one is what everybody else also wrote.
[Do the specific thing] in [time frame], without [the thing they dread].
The two halves do different jobs. The first names the outcome in the reader’s own terms; the second removes the objection that would otherwise arrive a second later. Most weak headlines have the first half and stop there.
Why [the common approach] keeps [the bad outcome] — and what to do instead.
It names a belief the reader already half-holds, which buys attention faster than a claim about you. It also obliges the body to deliver an actual alternative, which is a healthy constraint on the rest of the page.
For [specific person] who [specific situation]: [the outcome], [the format].
It disqualifies visibly, which is exactly what makes the right reader feel found. A page written to appeal to everyone reads as though it were written for nobody in particular, because it was.
[Outcome] using [the named method], in [format].
An outcome the reader cannot picture is a wish; a mechanism they can picture is a plan. Naming the method also makes the promise checkable, which is the point of naming anything.
What [specific person] should do when [specific situation].
Borrowed straight from the reader’s own phrasing. It works best when you take the wording from real replies, sales calls and support tickets rather than from a keyword tool, because people search the way they speak.
[Format] on [date]: [what you will be able to do afterward].
The date is doing persuasive work. It makes the thing concrete and the decision time-bound without any manufactured scarcity, which is why registration pages that bury the date give away their strongest asset.
Take any draft headline and climb down it: from the category, to the outcome, to the outcome with a constraint, to the outcome with a constraint and a situation. Most drafts start on the top rung and can be improved twice in about four minutes, without a single new idea being required.
The subhead is not a second headline and it is not a summary. It carries the three facts the headline could not fit: the format, who it is for, and what the reader can do afterwards.
[Format and length]. [Who it is for]. [What you will be able to do afterward].
The subhead carries what the headline had to leave out. Three short sentences beat one long one here, because the reader is scanning rather than reading, and a comma-spliced sentence is the easiest thing on a page to skip.
The failure mode is restatement. If your subhead can be deleted without the reader losing a fact, it was decoration. Read the headline and subhead together and ask what the second one added; if the answer is “emphasis”, replace it with the format and the audience, both of which are things a reader is actively trying to establish.
One useful discipline: write the subhead as three short sentences rather than one long one. Readers scan this line, and a comma splice running across two lines of a phone screen is the easiest element on a page to skip entirely.
A bullet points at something the reader will be able to do, or it points at something the product contains. Only one of those is worth the line it takes up.
The test takes two seconds per bullet: add “so you can…” to the end and see whether anything sensible follows. “Twelve email templates, so you can…” — so you can what? Finish the sentence and you have rewritten the bullet. Nothing about this requires talent; it requires only that you keep asking the question after the first two bullets, which is where most people stop.
[What you will be able to do] — [the constraint, the context, or the number that makes it real].
The dash is load-bearing. The first half is the capability; the second half is what stops it being a generic promise. Bullets that stop at the first half are the reason most bullet lists read identically across an entire industry.
The pair below was written for this guide. It is not client work and no result is attached to it, because any number here would be made up.
An inventory item. True, checkable, and pointed at the product rather than at the person reading.
Same fact, pointed at the reader’s Tuesday. Keep the number, add the consequence: that is the whole manoeuvre.
Six bullets start to read as a specification, and specifications are informative rather than persuasive. Order them by what the reader wants most, not by what is easiest for you to deliver — the second order is the one they naturally come out in, and it puts your convenience at the top of their list.
Keep the register consistent. A list where three items are outcomes and two are features reads as though it were assembled by two people, and the features drag the outcomes down to their level rather than the other way around.
Not because readers are unsophisticated, but because they are busy, half-distracted, and holding a phone. Difficulty is a cost you charge them for reading, and they do not have to pay it.
The strongest thing on a page should be the claim itself, standing without support from an intensifier. This is the standard we hold our own pages to, and it is not modesty — hype is a tell. A reader who has been sold to before knows that “revolutionary” is what people write when they cannot describe the mechanism, and “game-changing” is what they write when they have no number.
No exclamation marks. They ask the reader to supply enthusiasm the sentence has not earned, and on a landing page they read as nervousness rather than energy.
Copy the page text into a plain editor and count “you” and “your” against “we”, “our” and “I”. There is no correct ratio and anybody quoting one is guessing — but the direction is not in doubt.
If the first-person words outnumber the second-person ones on a landing page, the page is about the company. That is a perfectly reasonable thing for an about page to be and a fatal thing for a landing page, because the reader is not deciding whether you are impressive. They are deciding whether this changes their week.
Everywhere else, rewrite in the second person. It is usually mechanical: “we built a tool that lets teams…” becomes “you can…”, and the sentence gets shorter as a side effect.
Second person aimed at the reader’s shortcomings — “you are probably making this mistake”, “your funnel is leaking and you do not know it” — buys a flinch rather than attention. Use “you” for the outcome and the action. Describe the problem in the third person, or in the first, and let the reader recognise themselves without being pointed at.
“Very fast” is a sentence with a hole where the number should be. “Dramatically better” is the same hole with a longer word in front of it. Cut the word, and either the fact appears or you discover you never had the claim.
That is the whole method, and it is mechanical enough to run on a page you did not write. Delete every adverb and intensifier in one pass. Read the result. Restore only the ones whose absence changed the meaning — there will be one or two, and the rest were doing the work of persuading you that the sentence was persuasive.
“May help you to potentially reduce” is four words of insurance around a promise nobody can act on. Hedging usually appears when a writer is uneasy about a claim, which is useful information: the fix is not softer wording, it is a claim you are willing to make. Either commit to it or take it off the page.
“Only three seats left” when there is no limit, a countdown that resets when the page reloads, a price rise that never happens. Each of these works once and then teaches the reader that nothing you write is load-bearing — including the parts that were true. If the deadline is real, name the date. If the seats are limited, say the number and honour it. Everything else is borrowing against a list you have not built yet.
Nothing below is a trick. Each rewrite is the brief, the pointing rule and the cut list applied in order — which is what makes the method repeatable rather than inspirational.
Every line below was written for this page as a teaching example. None of it is client work, none of it is attributed to a real business, and no result is claimed for any of it — a conversion number here would be invented, and invented numbers are the thing this guide spends a chapter arguing against.
The draft names a category and a feeling. The rewrite names the artifact, the quantity and the job it does. Nothing about it is cleverer; it is only more specific, and specificity is what the reader was checking for.
The draft spends its words on how important the event is. The rewrite spends them on the day, the length and the problem. “Exclusive”, “secrets” and the exclamation mark all left together, and the sentence got stronger for it.
Both sentences are in the first person, but only the second one commits: a scope, a time frame and a disqualifier. This is the case where “we” earns its place, because the sentence is a promise about what we will do rather than a description of how we see ourselves.
The draft is an inventory item. The rewrite is the same fact pointed at the reader’s Tuesday. The pointing rule in one line: keep the number, add the consequence.
Read the four rewrites in a row and the pattern is obvious: every one of them replaced an adjective with a fact. The format, the day, the length, the number, the scope, the disqualifier. That is what “stronger copy” usually turns out to mean in practice, and it is why the brief comes first — you cannot swap in facts you have not collected.
Run the first group with the page in front of you and your voice on. Run the second one with an editor open. Together they take about ten minutes and they catch most of what a fresh reader would have caught for you.
When the new copy goes live, change the headline or the bullets or the button — not all three at once — and judge it on the action rather than on how it reads in a meeting. Simple A/B testing covers what small traffic can honestly tell you, which is less than most tools imply and more than nothing.
A headline is the belief compressed. It names an outcome or a problem in the reader’s own words, and it would not be equally true on a competitor’s page — that second test alone removes most of the headlines on the internet. The six formulas above cover the reliable structures; which one fits depends on whether the reader arrives with the problem already named, and on whether you have a date doing work for you. Where the headline sits, and what has to sit under it, is in the page anatomy.
As long as the argument takes, which is decided by price and unfamiliarity rather than by taste. A free download for a warm audience needs a few lines. An expensive program for strangers needs a full argument. Length is not the variable that matters — unanswered objections are. Write until the real ones are answered, then stop, and do not pad to reach a length somebody told you converts.
Copy first, every time. A design is an arrangement of an argument, and it cannot arrange one that does not exist yet. Write the brief, then the headline, the subhead, the bullets and the button, then lay them out. Pages designed first tend to acquire copy shaped to fill boxes, which is exactly how filler sentences get written and then defended.
Write what you can show. The work itself is proof: a sample, a preview, the first module. Demonstrated expertise is proof — the specific detail an amateur would not know. So are plainly stated credentials, a named refund policy and honesty about what is not included. Never invent testimonials, borrow logos or attach numbers you cannot substantiate. A fabricated proof point is the one thing on a page that a later rewrite cannot repair.
As often as the page is long, provided it is the same ask every time. Repeating one action is a convenience for the reader who becomes convinced halfway down. Offering different actions — download, book a call, subscribe — is a menu, and a menu asks somebody to decide which decision to make before making the one that matters.
Judge it on the action rather than on opinions, and change one thing at a time. A headline tested against a headline can be read; a rebuilt page cannot. At small volumes the honest answer is frequently that there is not enough data yet — simple A/B testing covers what is worth testing when traffic is thin, and what to do instead when it is too thin to test at all.
Landing pages, forms, email campaigns and the customer record are included on every paid plan and sit together — so the sentence somebody clicked is still attached to them when the follow-up goes out, and when they buy.
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