Writing the Narrative

The narrative is where you say what you will do, how, and how anyone will know whether it worked. The needs statement earned the reader's attention; this is where you spend it.

It is also where good intentions do the most damage, because sincerity reads as vagueness. A reviewer cannot score commitment.

The narrative is where you say what you'll do, how you'll do it, and how anyone will know if it worked. The needs statement earned the reader's attention — this is where you spend it.

It's also where good intentions do the most damage, because sincerity comes across as vagueness. Nobody can score how much you care.

Now you say what you're going to do, how you'll do it, and how anyone will know if it worked.

This is where caring a lot can actually hurt you. Saying how much something matters to you sounds nice and tells the reader nothing they can use.

An objective is a statement of what the project will achieve, written so that a stranger could tell afterward whether it happened. That is the whole test, and most objectives fail it.

"Improve literacy in our community" is a direction, not an objective. Nobody can mark it done. Add who, what, how much, and by when, and it becomes something you can be held to — and, just as importantly, something you can demonstrate you achieved.

Aim for a small number. Three objectives you can evidence beat eight you cannot, and a long list reads as someone who has not decided what the project is.

An objective is what you're going to achieve, written so that somebody else could tell whether it happened.

"Help kids read better" isn't one. Nobody can check it off.

Who, what, how many, and by when — now it's something you could actually prove you did.

And pick a few, not lots. Three you can show beats eight you can't.

Here you describe what will actually happen: activities, who does them, when, and with what. The purpose is not to prove the plan is clever. It is to demonstrate that you have thought it through at the level of a Tuesday.

Reviewers read for competence signals, and the ones that land are unglamorous. A realistic timeline, with the slow parts acknowledged. Named staff, or a clear description of who you will hire and how. Partner organizations that have confirmed rather than been assumed. Some sign that you know where this gets difficult.

That last one is worth doing deliberately. Naming a risk and saying how you will handle it reads as experience. Presenting a plan where nothing can go wrong reads as someone who has not run one before, which is exactly the doubt you need to remove.

Here you describe what will actually happen: activities, who does them, when, with what. The point isn't to prove the plan is clever — it's to show you've thought it through at the level of an actual Tuesday.

Reviewers look for signs of competence, and the convincing ones are boring. A realistic timeline. Named staff, or a clear plan for hiring. Partners who have actually agreed. Some sign you know where this gets hard.

That last one is worth doing on purpose. Naming a risk and saying how you'd handle it sounds experienced. A plan where nothing can go wrong sounds like someone who has never run one.

Now say what will actually happen. Who does what, and when.

The thing that convinces people isn't a clever idea. It's showing you've thought about a normal ordinary day of doing it.

And here's a surprising one: say what might go wrong and what you'd do about it. Saying nothing can go wrong makes you sound like you've never tried.

Evaluation is how you will know whether the outcomes happened, and it is the section most often written last and worst — usually a sentence promising to "track progress and measure success," which commits to nothing and scores accordingly.

It needs four things: what you will measure, how you will collect it, when, and who is responsible. If an objective says a number will change, the evaluation says where that number comes from and what it was before you started. Baselines matter — without one, you cannot demonstrate change, only a final state.

Write this section immediately after the objectives, not at the end. Doing so catches objectives you cannot actually measure, which is the cheapest possible moment to find that out.

Evaluation is how you'll know whether the outcomes happened. It's the section most often written last and worst — usually one sentence promising to "track progress," which commits to nothing and scores like it.

It needs four things: what you'll measure, how you'll collect it, when, and who's responsible. If an objective says a number will change, this says where that number comes from and what it was before you started. That starting number matters — without it you can show a final state but not a change.

Write this right after the objectives, not at the end. That's how you catch an objective you can't actually measure, at the cheapest possible moment.

How will you know if it worked?

Most people write one sentence here saying they'll "keep track," which doesn't mean anything.

Say what you'll measure, how, when, and who's doing it. And write down what things are like before you start — otherwise you can say how things are at the end, but not that you changed anything.

Plainly. Grant prose drifts toward abstraction under pressure, and abstraction is where a reviewer stops being able to picture anything. "Facilitate capacity-building among stakeholders" survives because it cannot be checked; that is precisely the problem with it.

Say who, doing what, to whom, by when. Put the answer in the first sentence of each section rather than building to it. Let the specifics carry the weight — one described afternoon does more than a paragraph of adjectives.

And cut every sentence that only asserts that you care. The reader assumes it. What they cannot assume is that you can execute.

Plainly. Grant writing drifts toward vague language under pressure, and vague is where the reader stops being able to picture anything. Phrases like "facilitate capacity-building" survive because nobody can check them — which is exactly what's wrong with them.

Say who does what, to whom, by when. Put the answer first instead of building up to it. Let specifics do the work.

And cut every sentence that only says you care. They assume that. What they can't assume is that you can pull it off.

Write plainly. When people get nervous they use big important-sounding words, and then nobody can picture anything.

Say who does what, and when. Put the main thing first.

And take out anything that only says how much you care. They already believe you. What they don't know yet is whether you can actually do it.