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Less is often more

by Jack Posted on September 16, 2013

I used to work with a chap who, when asked for his opinion on something, would normally start by saying ‘I cannot tell a lie ….’

But this was not true. He could tell a lie as well as any of us. Perhaps better than most of us. When he said ‘I cannot tell a lie,’ he was playing for time. What he meant was ‘You want my opinion? Hmm, gosh, in that case, I think I’m going to need a moment or two to think about exactly what my opinion might be.’

Another chap used to pad his speech with the phrase ‘In point of fact’. And a woman with whom I worked seemed to start every second sentence with ‘Far be it for me to go against the prevailing wisdom, but ….’

Most of us have a few of these little empty phrases that we use to fill the ‘dead air’ while we give ourselves time to think about what we really want to say. And more than a few of us drag these phrases into our writing.

All we need to say is ‘If the price increases by more than three percent ….’ And yet we find our fingers tapping out ‘In the somewhat unlikely event that the price increases by more than three percent….’ Six words where one would have been perfectly adequate.

I can still recall one of the first op-ed pieces I ever wrote. I submitted 1,500 carefully crafted words. The subeditor chopped it back to about two-thirds of that. And I had the devil’s own job spotting what she had trimmed.

‘But if I try to write it lean, it comes out all wrong,’ one of my friends said recently. And that seems to be true for many people. So write what you need to write in order to say what you want to say. And then see if you can cut out the ten, twenty, thirty percent of the words that don’t really add anything to the clarity or style. You’ll probably be surprised how often less is more.

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Just momentarily …

by Jack Posted on August 15, 2013

I clearly remember, about 30 years ago, sitting on a Continental Airlines DC-10 at London Gatwick Airport, waiting to take-off for New York.

The aircraft had left the gate on time, but almost half an hour later we were still firmly on the ground. Throughout the cabin, passengers seated next to the windows peered this way and that, trying, with little apparent success, to see what the hold-up was.

Finally the captain came on the tannoy and, in his best Chuck Yeager voice, announced: ‘Ah … a bit of a … ah … delay this morning, folks. But we’re moving up the line, and we … ah … expect to be cleared for take-off momentarily.’

As someone who had grown up with British English, I did not find this at all reassuring. Momentarily meant ‘briefly’ or ‘for a moment’. One could pause momentarily. But take-off momentarily? I didn’t want the plane to leap briefly into the sky and then just as quickly return to the ground. I wanted it to stay in the sky all the way to New York.

Happily, we were soon airborne. And we stayed airborne all the way to Newark. (Or was it LaGuardia?) And, as I began to visit the US more frequently, I gradually got used to speakers of American English using momentarily to mean ‘at any moment’ or ‘instantly’.

The memory of that first encounter with momentarily in the US sense came back to me earlier this week when I heard the very British English-speaking chair of a panel discussion on New Zealand radio saying ‘We’ll get to that momentarily, but first …’.

Ah well, I suppose with films, TV, and the Internet, it was only a matter of time.

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Everybody’s talkin’ at me

by Jack Posted on July 29, 2013

Everybody’s talkin’ at me / I don’t hear a word they’re sayin’ – Fred Neil (although for most of us, probably via Harry Nilsson)

According to the cab driver who was taking me home a couple of days ago, everyday communication has become ‘too bloody complicated’. ‘There’s just too much stuff coming at ya these days. No wonder nobody knows what they’re doing.’

He was telling me this as he piloted the cab through heavy traffic, doing his best to ignore temporary traffic signs, while following instructions from the lady on his satnav and listening to talkback radio. Oh, and he was also offering advice to more than a few of the other drivers with whom we were sharing the road.

‘My son,’ he told me, raising his voice above the sound of the radio ‘works at a call centre. And do you know, about half of the calls he gets are from people who can’t even follow instructions. They get something in the mail, or they go onto their smartphone or their computer, and yet they still have to call the call centre. What’s that all about, eh?’

I was about to suggest that perhaps some of the problem might lie with the fact that the original communication was not sufficiently clear or concise. But, by then, he was hanging out of his window suggesting to a woman in a Mercedes that if she wanted to ‘drive like that’ she should find a disused airfield somewhere.

I am old enough to remember when most written communication was pompous but focussed. Dear Sir, In reply to yours of the 13th inst., the outstanding balance is $13.43. Yours, etc.

And screens generally had just one image and maybe a line or two of text.

Today, the authors of both written and electronic communication seem to find it hard to resist bombarding the recipient with as many messages as possible. And the possibilities are seemingly endless. But, as one of my colleagues says: Just because you can, it doesn’t mean you should.

If you have something to say, something that you want your reader to understand and act upon, it’s still a good idea to ensure that what you write is clear, concise, and focussed. As George Bernard Shaw once observed: ‘The biggest problem with communication is the illusion that it has taken place.’

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Write and revise. And revise again.

by Jack Posted on July 3, 2013

My love of written English really kicked in when I was eleven.

My English teacher that year was a diminutive woman whose own passion was for copperplate handwriting. My recollection is that she didn’t much care for how you shaped a sentence or a story; but if you wanted a good mark, you had better shape each of your handwritten letters perfectly.

The rounded shapes – a, o, e, etc – had to be perfectly oval. Ascenders and descenders had to be perfectly straight. And just the right degree of flourish was required when rendering capitals.

Unfortunately, my own handwriting was idiosyncratic to say the least. It wasn’t difficult to read. In fact it was very easy to read. But it bore little resemblance to Mrs A’s idea of ‘proper’ handwriting. As a consequence, my work seldom made it onto the pride-of-place board on which was displayed ‘Work we are proud of’.

The other thing that militated against the elevation of my compositions was the fact that that was the year I discovered revising. That was the year I discovered the joy of tweaking and polishing and tweaking again. I seemed that there was never a sentence that couldn’t be improved with a little pruning, a little rearranging. But Mrs A did not like to see words or phrases struck out. Neither did she like to see words or phrases replaced, at the last minute, by other words or phrases. Far too messy.

I was reminded of Mrs A recently when I was re-reading Writing That Works by Kenneth Roman and Joel Raphaelson.

While it was written before the advent of the Internet – almost before the advent of PCs – Writing That Works (How to write memos, letters, reports, plans and other papers that say what you mean – and get things done) is as relevant today as it was when it first came out. It’s a small book – just over 100 pages – but it’s crammed with practical tips on ‘how to write with clarity, precision, brevity, and the force of logic’.

One of the top tips is edit everything you write. Good writers, the authors suggest, consider revising an essential part of writing. ‘The better the writer, the less satisfied he [or, presumably, she] is likely to be with his first draft, or even his second.’ So write and revise, and then revise again.

Roman and Raphaelson suggest that, wherever possible, drafts should be left overnight and then revisited the following day. ‘Imperfections that were invisible the day before will now pop out at you. Through some alchemy of time, you’ll know what to do about them.’

In the email age, it has become common practice to dash off a hundred or even a thousand words and then immediately press SEND. The regularity of the machine rendered letters of today’s emails would have delighted Mrs A. But it seems to me that, nine times out of ten, clarity, precision, and brevity are conspicuous by their absence.

In the interests of better communication, it’s still best to write and revise. And then revise again.

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You say tomato and I say tomato

by Jack Posted on June 9, 2013

My dining companion was fulminating against the use of American English.

The particular document that was causing him so much distress contained no American spelling. There was no sign of color in place of colour. And there was no suggestion of analyze in place of analyse.

No, what had triggered his fulmination was the use of parking lot, sidewalk, and railroad (and a few other Americanisms) where British and Commonwealth English would have used car park, pavement (or footpath), and railway.

At first, I thought: fair enough. Just because American writers (and American readers) have a penchant for pants rather than trousers and airplanes rather than aeroplanes, that doesn’t make it correct to use these words throughout the English-speaking world.

But on further reflection, I wasn’t so sure.

A handful of English English words had their origins in England – or at least in one of the several proto-states and regions that eventually became England. But many more words were adapted from German and Latin. Later, Norman French contributed a large number of words relating to governance and public administration. And then, during the second half of the second millennium, many more words were ‘borrowed’ from the languages of India and Malaya and China and … well, you see what I mean.

I suppose there must have been a time when the purists thought that veranda was just plain wrong. ‘Veranda? Surely you mean portico!’ (Or perhaps gallery?) But today both veranda and portico are perfectly acceptable in English English. And dinghy didn’t exactly condemn rowing boat to the scrapheap, so I’m not sure that rowboat will either.

English is packed to the gunwales with clumps of words that are almost interchangeable. If big means big, why do we need large, huge, enormous, vast, massive, and immense?

I think that I shall continue to call a pavement a pavement. But if you want to call it a sidewalk, and you’re happy that your reader will know exactly what you mean, that’s perfectly OK with me.

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It was in the local paper

by Jack Posted on May 27, 2013

I was having lunch with an old friend recently. She’s an old friend in at least two senses. First, I have known her for about 30 years. And, second, she has had rather a lot of birthdays – certainly a lot more birthdays than I can lay claim to.

I think that she recently celebrated her 127th summer. Something like that. And for most of those summers – and a good few winters too – she’s been a volunteer driver for Meals on Wheels.

But her Meals on Wheels days may be coming to an end. You see, the government apparently has a plan to produce all future meals in a big factory just off the coast of New South Wales. These mass mass-produced meals are to be frozen solid and then shipped in trucks the size of freight trains to various hospitals, from where they will be distributed to those elderly and infirm house-bound citizens who are in need of a bit of pre-prepared sustenance.

‘It’s ridiculous!’ my friend said. ‘Half the people getting Meals on Wheels don’t have a microwave. And most of those who do have one don’t know how to use it. They won’t be able to eat the meals until the next day. That’s no good.’

‘You’re not thinking of the cook-chill plan that’s currently being considered for some hospital food, are you?’ I asked.

‘Cook-chill? No. Frozen. All of it,’ she said, emphatically.

‘And did the Meals on Wheels chaps tell you this?’

‘They didn’t even know about it,’ my friend said. ‘I don’t think the government wants them to know.’

‘So, how did you find out?’

‘It was in the local paper. Not our local paper; Maude’s local paper. She gets a different one.’

Now it is entirely possible that either my friend – or her friend, Maude – misread the story in the local paper. But I’m more inclined to think that the story was so badly bent out of shape that a misinterpretation was almost inevitable.

Some local newspapers do a great job of ‘crusading’. But there’s a fine line between whipping up local interest and seriously distorting the facts in order to ensure a good headline or two.

Greenpeace’s co-founder, Paul Watson, has been quoted as saying ‘It doesn’t matter what is true; it only matters what people believe is true.’ But I don’t think that’s right. What is presented as fact should at least be factual.

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Opinion is not fact

by Jack Posted on May 17, 2013

We were at a party. People were coming and going, but, at any one time, there were probably about 50 of us.

Several of the guests were investment bankers. There were also a number heavy-duty business people. And there were one or two people who were simply famous for being famous.

Not surprisingly, there were plenty of strong opinions abroad that evening. These were not people who were used to being challenged. Indeed, most had reached a point in their lives where they were accustomed to having their pronouncements accepted as irrefutable facts. ‘The index will fall by at least 30 points by the end of next week.’ ‘Rock and roll has had its day.’ ‘It is no longer possible to make money from publishing.’

Present also was a slightly-built woman, a little older than most of the guests. Her name was Miriam. Miriam drifted serenely about the room, wineglass in hand, contributing eloquently to first one conversation and then another.

At one of the conversations she offered a view that caused a couple of pin-stripe suited bankers to almost choke on their champagne.

‘Humph! Is that a fact?’ one of the investment bankers said, rather condescendingly.

‘A fact? I don’t know if it’s a fact. It may be,’ Miriam said. ‘But I was not offering a fact. I was offering an opinion. Fact is fact; opinion is opinion.’

I do wish that Miriam would explain that to whoever writes the heavily-opinionated so-called news bulletin that wakes me up each morning.

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What’s in a name?

by Jack Posted on May 7, 2013

Back in the day (as one of my favourite reality TV characters is wont to say) I spent a few years working for an advertising agency.

It was a time when just about every agency seemed to have its genesis in a long and liquid lunch. One minute Mike Pickles, David Ham, and Peter Cold were ordering their fourth bottle of Penfolds Bin Something-or-Other; the next Cold, Ham & Pickles (Advertising) Limited was making a play for a serious chunk of Nestlé’s advertising budget.

Of course, what had seemed to be such a good idea over a glass or two of Shiraz didn’t always turn out to be such a good idea in real life. Within a year or so, one of the original chums had usually folded his tent and gone off to join the alphabet soup in the building across the street. For a while, Cold, Ham & Pickles would probably box on as Cold, Ham & Pickles – only without Mr Ham. But then, once the stock of printed stationery was down to a manageable level, they would probably ‘rebrand’ as Cold Pickles. Keep it simple.

This would be good news for Mike Pickles. His name would have been on the letterhead from the start. But people probably referred to the agency simply as Cold Ham. (Advertising and marketing people are like that.) Now, with Dave Ham a part of Dinster, Denster, Dumpster & Ham, Mr Pickles’ visibility would suddenly be more … well … visible.

But another out-of-control lunch was never far away. And, after another four or five bottles of Bin Whatever, it would probably seem like a good idea to merge with the up-and-coming creative team of George Radish and Simon Mustard to form Cold Pickles Radish & Mustard.

And maybe, for a while, the new set up would go from strength to strength, winning some important new business pitches, and picking up creative awards left, right, and centre. CPRM (as it probably became known) may even have been nominated for Ad Agency of the Year.

But nothing lasts for ever. Over yet another long lunch, the creative genius that was Simon Mustard would probably announce that he was moving to New York. Or Prague. Or maybe Kathmandu.

Without the magical touch of Simon, CPR (no M) could never be what it had once been. With a steady drift of star clients to pastures more creative, the future for CPR (no M) would begin to look decidedly less rosy. The options would seem few and far between.

Over several bottles of Penfolds Bin I-Can’t-Remember, the remaining partners, Pete, Mike, and George, would probably think that it made good sense to merge with Noteworthy Overend & Willis. While Pete phoned Andrew Noteworthy to sound him out on the idea, George probably even sketched a logo for CPR:NOW on the back of the wine list.

Sadly, by then it was usually too late. The patient was already as good as dead.

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The sound of good writing

by Jack Posted on April 30, 2013

‘People read with their ears, whether they know it or not.’ – William Zinsser

Some years ago now, I was hired to coach a small team of people whose job it was to handle the ‘difficult’ customer service issues for a large utility provider.

The utility’s policy was, wherever possible, to deal with the customer service issue by phone, and then to follow up with a brief letter or email confirming what had happened and outlining what would happen next. The people I was to coach were the people who would be drafting those letters and emails.

We spent our first session discussing the purpose of the letters and looking at some of the things that should be included as well as some of the things that might usefully be excluded. I am pleased to report that the participants quickly grasped the concepts and I went home that night feeling that the assignment was going to be a doddle.

But then came the second session.

The second session was where the participants got to put pen to paper – or, more correctly, they got to put their fingers to their keyboards. And the results were not great. Yes, they generally managed to cover off the key points. But the style and tone of their missives was almost universally ugly. Any goodwill and rapport that the agents may have managed to establish in the course of their telephone conversations was likely to be quickly undone once the customer received the follow-up letter or email.

It’s not easy to explain style and tone to someone who has only ever thought of style as something to do with hair and tone as one of the knobs on a hi-fi system. Eventually, I asked one of the chaps (Brian, as I recall) to stand in front of another of the participants, Dorothy, and read her what he had written. And, after some hesitation and much frowning, he did. Or at least he tried to. It was a lumpy performance at best.

‘Now, on the basis of what you have just heard, what do you think of Brian?’ I asked Dorothy.

‘That he’s a smart-arsed prat who doesn’t even slightly care about my problem,’ she said.

Brian protested. ‘That’s not fair,’ he said. ‘OK, it may not have sounded very good, but the customer isn’t going to be listening to it, she’s going to be reading it’

However, as Mr Zinsser observed, people read with their ears. What they ‘hear’ inside their heads is a very important part of the communication.

I think it is always a good idea to read what you have written – aloud – before you send it. If what you have written doesn’t sound good to you, then it’s unlikely that it will ‘sound’ good to your reader.

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‘Anyone can make the simple complicated’

by Jack Posted on April 22, 2013

‘Anyone can make the simple complicated. Creativity is making the complicated simple.’ – Charles Mingus

I remember an exchange, several years ago now, between my boss and the CEO of one of our biggest clients.

The CEO was questioning our fee for editing a proposal. ‘The fee seems rather steep,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking it should be about half that.’

My boss disagreed. ‘It was a really complicated piece of work.’

‘Well, maybe it was. It’s a complicated subject. But what we have now is really simple.’

My boss nodded. ‘Yes. It is. And how clever is that?’

Sometimes, getting from complicated to simple is itself relatively simple. But more often than not it takes a good deal of skill, experience, and hard work.

I often come across managers who think that making complicated things simple devalues them. ‘If we make it look too simple, the customer may think that they can do it themselves. They might think that they don’t need us.’

But, of course, a large part of the reason for making the potentially complicated simple is to make sure that the customer comprehends that you not only understand the problem, you also have the solution. And if you can’t communicate that – clearly and succinctly – you’re probably not going to get the order.