Daniel Throssell Copywriting: The Porridge Framework Explained

Throssell's most controversial belief is that selling in emails is actively harmful. Not "sometimes harmful" or "harmful if done badly"—harmful as a category. His argument: every email you send trains your list to expect something. If every email pitches a product, your list learns that opening your email means being pitched. So they stop opening. Throssell's solution: send emails that never pitch. Send emails that are just... interesting. A story. An observation. A weird tangent about a pigeon he saw on his walk. The pitch, when it comes (rarely, and in dedicated emails), gets opened because the reader has been trained to expect value, not a sales pitch. This is the inverse of the "email every day, pitch every email" advice most copywriting courses teach—and it's why Throssell's open rates consistently dwarf those of his more aggressive peers.

Traditional copywriting is built on persuasion architecture: hooks, loops, pattern interrupts, scarcity, social proof, risk reversal. Throssell rejects all of it. His emails don't have hooks—they have first lines that sound like the middle of a conversation. They don't have loops—they meander. They don't have CTAs—they end abruptly, sometimes mid-thought. This sounds like bad copywriting until you realize what he's actually doing: he's writing emails that feel like personal letters, not marketing. And people open personal letters. The counterintuition is that the less your email looks like marketing, the more it gets read. The more it gets read, the more trust you build. The more trust you build, the more your rare pitches convert. Throssell isn't abandoning copywriting—he's operating at a level above it, where the entire email list is the funnel and individual emails are just touchpoints in a long-term relationship.

Throssell calls his emails "porridge"—content that is genuinely interesting on its own merits, independent of whether it sells anything. The porridge principle states: every email must be worth reading even if you never buy anything from me. This is the foundation. If your email is only interesting because it's setting up a pitch, it's not porridge—it's a sales letter disguised as content, and readers can smell the disguise. Real porridge is: a weird story about something that happened to you, an observation about human behavior, a contrarian take on a popular topic, a breakdown of something you find fascinating. The test: would you forward this email to a friend who has no interest in your niche? If yes, it's porridge. If no, it's marketing. Throssell's emails pass this test constantly—his pigeon story, his observations about his neighbors, his rants about copywriting gurus—these are interesting to anyone, not just his customers. That's why his list grows: people forward them.

Most copywriters spend 80% of their effort on the subject line. Throssell spends almost none. His subject lines are deliberately casual—sometimes just a few words, sometimes a fragment, sometimes nothing clever at all. The real work goes into the first line of the email, which is written to sound like the middle of a conversation, not the beginning of a pitch. Examples from his emails: "So I was walking to the bakery yesterday..." or "Okay, weird story." or "I almost deleted this email." The first line does two things: it signals "this is not a marketing email" (because marketing emails don't start like this), and it creates curiosity (what happened at the bakery? what's the weird story? why almost deleted?). The conversational first line is anti-copywriting copywriting: it works precisely because it doesn't look like it's trying to work. Throssell's rule: if your first line sounds like it was written by a copywriter, rewrite it.

The body of a Throssell email doesn't follow a structure. It meanders. A story about a bakery might detour into a observation about pricing psychology, then circle back to the bakery, then end on a completely different thought. This sounds chaotic, but it's deliberate. The meandering middle mimics how real conversations work—people tangent, they come back, they connect unrelated things. This conversational rhythm is what makes his emails feel personal rather than promotional. Most copywriters write in straight lines: hook → problem → solution → CTA. Throssell writes in spirals: story → tangent → insight → back to story → unexpected conclusion. The reader doesn't know where the email is going, which is exactly why they keep reading. Predictability kills engagement. Meandering creates the "what's he going to say next?" feeling that keeps people reading to the end—and forwards your emails to friends.

Throssell's emails don't end with CTAs. They end abruptly—sometimes mid-thought, sometimes with a casual sign-off, sometimes with a question that goes unanswered. This is the most counterintuitive move in his framework. Every copywriting course teaches: end with a clear CTA. Throssell's argument: a CTA signals "this was a marketing email." An abrupt ending signals "this was a personal letter." The abrupt ending also leaves the reader wanting more, which is the single most powerful engagement driver in email. If every email ends with "click here to buy," the reader learns to stop reading before the end. If emails end unexpectedly, the reader reads to the last word every time—because they don't want to miss anything. The abrupt ending trains your list to read everything you send, which is worth more than any single CTA conversion.

Subject: pigeons. First line: "So there's this pigeon that sits outside my window every morning." Meandering middle: Throssell tells a story about watching a pigeon try to steal a crumb from a larger bird. The pigeon fails repeatedly but keeps trying. He then pivots—seamlessly—to an observation about how most creators give up after one failed attempt, while the pigeon tries seventeen times. The story isn't about pigeons; it's about persistence, but he never says that explicitly. The reader draws the conclusion themselves. Abrupt ending: "Anyway. The pigeon got the crumb. I have to go write a sales page." No CTA. No pitch. No moral. The email is interesting on its own—it's a story about a pigeon. It's also a metaphor for persistence that lands precisely because Throssell never explains it. Result: high open rates, high reply rates (people love responding to pigeon stories), and increased engagement on subsequent emails.

Subject: subject lines are a scam. First line: "I'm going to make enemies with this email." Meandering middle: Throssell argues that subject lines are the most overrated element of email marketing. He points out that his best-performing emails have terrible subject lines ("pigeons," "okay," "weird thing"). He explains that open rates are determined by the sender name and the reader's past experience with your emails, not the subject line. If your emails are consistently interesting, people open them regardless of the subject line. If your emails are consistently salesy, no subject line trick will save your open rates. He backs this up with his own data: emails with "clever" subject lines underperform emails with casual, boring subject lines. Abrupt ending: "Stop writing subject lines. Start writing emails worth opening." This email does double duty: it's interesting (contrarian takes always are) and it positions Throssell's entire philosophy as the antidote to conventional copywriting advice. Result: forwarded widely, sparked debate, drove signups to his paid list from people who'd never heard of him.

Subject: I'm not going to tell you to buy this. First line: "Seriously. Don't buy it." Meandering middle: Throssell talks about a product he's launching—but instead of selling it, he lists all the reasons someone shouldn't buy it. It's too expensive for beginners. It requires existing copywriting knowledge. It won't work if you don't already have an email list. He's genuinely discouraging people from buying. This reverse-psychology approach does two things: it filters out unqualified buyers (reducing refunds and complaints), and it makes qualified buyers want it more (because if he's trying this hard to talk them out of it, it must be good). The email ends with: "If you still want it after all that, the link is here. But I tried to warn you." Abrupt ending, soft CTA, and the entire email is interesting even if you don't buy—because the reverse-pitch structure is itself entertaining. Result: high conversion rate from a small segment of qualified readers, zero refunds, and the email got forwarded by people who found the approach novel.

Throssell's framework is ideal for email-first businesses where the lifetime value of a subscriber is high and the relationship matters more than any single conversion. Use it when: (1) You're building an email list as your primary asset—not a blog, not social media. (2) You sell high-ticket or recurring products where trust is the conversion driver. (3) You're in a niche where your competitors all sound the same and personality is your differentiator. (4) You have the patience to play the long game—Throssell's approach compounds over months and years, not days. It doesn't work for: one-off launches, impulse purchases, or businesses where email is a secondary channel. If you need a sale this week, use AIDA. If you're building an asset that pays dividends for years, use Throssell's approach.

If you're writing a sales page, use AIDA—it's designed to guide a high-intent reader to purchase. If you're writing cold traffic ads, use PAS—it amplifies pain to create urgency. If you're doing video content or social posts, use Hook-Story-Offer—narrative works better in visual formats. Throssell's approach is specifically for email, where you have a captive audience that has opted in and where the relationship compounds. The frameworks aren't competing—they serve different channels and goals. The most sophisticated creators use Throssell's approach for their email list and AIDA for their sales pages, letting each framework do what it does best.

Before writing, identify what's genuinely interesting to you that could be interesting to your reader. Throssell's porridge comes from his daily life: walks, observations, arguments, weird thoughts. Your porridge might be: a problem you solved this week, a mistake you made, a contrarian opinion you hold, a story from your industry, or an observation about human behavior. The test: is this interesting to you? If you're bored writing it, your reader will be bored reading it. Throssell never writes about topics he finds dull—he only sends emails about things that genuinely fascinate him in the moment. This is why his emails feel alive: they're not manufactured content, they're genuine curiosity transmitted through text. Keep a running note on your phone of interesting observations. When it's time to write, pick the one that still interests you.

Don't write a first line. Write the second line of a conversation. Start as if the reader just walked in and you're mid-thought. Examples: "So here's something weird that happened..." or "I almost didn't send this." or "Okay, I need to vent." The first line should feel like an interruption, not an introduction. This breaks the "marketing email" pattern instantly. Throssell's first lines are never: "I hope you're doing well" or "I wanted to share..."—those signal marketing. His first lines signal a friend texting you. Write 5-10 first lines for each email, then pick the one that sounds least like a copywriter wrote it. If it sounds polished, it's wrong. If it sounds casual and slightly raw, it's right.

Write the body of the email without a structure. Start with your porridge topic, then follow your natural thought process. If the story reminds you of something else, go there. If you have an insight mid-story, share it. If you want to circle back, circle back. The meandering isn't random—it follows your genuine associative thinking, which is what makes it feel authentic. Most copywriters force structure: hook, three points, CTA. Throssell lets the content find its own shape. This feels risky because you might "ramble"—but rambling is the point. Rambling is what real communication sounds like. The reader doesn't want a structured essay; they want a letter from a human. Write the way you'd talk to a friend over coffee. Edit for clarity, not for structure. Cut anything that doesn't feel alive.

When the email feels done, stop. Don't add a CTA. Don't summarize. Don't tie it up with a bow. Just stop. Throssell's endings are some of his most distinctive features: "Anyway. I have to go." or "That's it. That's the email." or he ends mid-story, leaving the reader wanting more. The abrupt ending does three things: it trains the reader to read to the very last word (because there's no "CTA section" to skip), it leaves the reader wanting more (the most powerful engagement driver), and it signals "this was a personal letter, not marketing." If you must include a CTA, make it soft and buried: "P.S. If you liked this, you might like [thing]." The P.S. is the only place Throssell ever pitches, and even then, rarely. The email itself is the product. The CTA is optional.