Burying The Lede Example

You know that friend who tells a story backward? They start with, “So I got a parking ticket,” and then, twenty minutes later, you learn they actually won the lottery first, but the ticket machine ate their winning slip. That, my friend, is the art of burying the lede.

It’s a classic writing crime, and we’ve all been its victim. The lede (or “lead”) is the most important part of a story—the juicy bit. When you bury it, you shove that juicy bit down to paragraph four, after you’ve already bored everyone to tears.

Let’s look at a truly awful example. Imagine a news article that begins like this:

“The annual town council meeting for Maplewood was held last Tuesday evening in the community center. Mayor Higgins discussed the budget for the upcoming fiscal year. Several residents expressed concerns about potholes.”

Zzzzz. You’re already scrolling Instagram. But wait—here comes the buried lede:

“After the meeting, a large raccoon was found living inside the town’s water tower. It had apparently been there for three months, using the mayor’s old top hat as a bed.”

That’s the story! The raccoon in the top hat! But the writer has slid it in like a secret note passed in math class. They buried the lede so deep it needs a shovel and a search party.

Why Do People Do This?

Good question! Sometimes it’s fear. The writer thinks, “I can’t just start with a raccoon. I need to set the scene first!” No. You don’t. The raccoon is the scene.

Other times, it’s just clumsiness. We get so wrapped up in details that we forget what’s actually interesting. It’s like baking a cake and then hiding the frosting under the oven mitt.

But the biggest culprit? Habit. We’ve been trained since school to start with boring context. “In this essay, I will discuss…” Bleh. Let’s break that habit right now.

A Lighter Example (with Pizza)

Let’s say you text your friend about your lunch. A buried-lede version sounds like this: “I went to that new place on Elm Street. The lighting was weird. The napkins were paper. Also, I accidentally ate a slice that had a live cricket on it.”

Your friend reads that and thinks: “Wait… cricket? Live cricket?” You buried the lede, and now your friend is confused and a little grossed out. The correct text is: “I ATE A CRICKET PIZZA. Details later.”

See how freeing that is? BAM. You lead with the chaos. The napkins and lighting can come after the emergency room visit.

How to Fix It (The “Upside-Down” Trick)

Here’s a fun exercise. Write your story normally. Now, take the very last sentence and move it to the top. I’m serious. Just cut and paste.

If your story ends with “And that’s how we found the treasure map under the hamster,” then your new first line is: “We found a treasure map under the hamster.” Perfect.

You can worry about the hamster’s name and the shovel you used later. The lede is served, hot and fresh.

The One-Paragraph Test

Here’s another nugget of wisdom. Ask yourself: “If I only had one paragraph to tell this story, what would it be?” That paragraph is your lede. Write that first.

Everything else is just supporting actors. Treat them like the background dancers in a music video—fun, but nobody bought the ticket to see them.

And if you catch yourself writing “Before we talk about the zombie apocalypse, let’s discuss the weather…” Stop. Delete that sentence. The zombie apocalypse is the lede. The rain can be a footnote.

A Real-World Example (From History!)

Think about the headline: “Man Bites Dog.” That’s a perfect lede. It’s immediate, shocking, and you want to know more. The buried-lede version would be: “A local man was observed this morning engaging in an unusual oral interaction with a canine. The dog appeared startled.”

Yawn. We lost the magic. Don’t be the person who makes “Man Bites Dog” boring. Be the person who shouts it from the rooftops.

Why This Matters for You

You might be thinking, “I’m not a journalist, so who cares?” But you are a storyteller. Every time you tell a coworker about your weekend, or explain why you’re late, or write a dating profile, you’re burying or unearthing a lede.

When you lead with the good stuff, people listen. They lean in. They don’t check their phone. You become that magnetic person who always has the best stories—because you actually tell them the best part first.

Plus, it’s way more fun. Imagine the joy of dropping a bombshell without a three-paragraph preamble. It’s like skipping the appetizer and going straight for the chocolate lava cake.

The Uplifting Conclusion (You Made It!)

So here’s the deal: Go ahead and dig up that lede. Throw it in the air like confetti. Let it land right at the top of your story, sparkling and ridiculous.

You don’t have to be perfect. Sometimes you’ll still slip the raccoon into paragraph four. That’s okay. You’re human. But every time you catch yourself burying the fun part, just smile and hit “delete.” Then start over with the good stuff.

The world is full of buried ledes, hidden under miles of “first of all” and “let me set the scene.” You, my friend, are the treasure hunter. You’re the one who yanks the shiny thing out of the dirt and holds it up to the light.

And that shiny thing? It’s you. The lede of your own life. So stop burying it. Lead with your weirdness, your joy, your accidental cricket pizza. Trust me, the world is ready for that story. And it starts right now.

…Also, the mayor got his top hat back. The raccoon kept the bed.