One of the greatest gifts I ever received — the New Yorker magazine — came from my great-uncle Ollie.
I was only 12, and the New Yorker hooked me. I have been reading it ever since. Here's the unique thing: Uncle Ollie did not buy me a subscription; no, he would read his own copy, then mail it to me every week from his home in New York to mine in Connecticut.
That is love.
Reading the New Yorker gave me a love for language, long before I came to appreciate the magazine's rigorous fact-checking and lofty standards for clarity.
Clarity promotes success in business and in all of life. Confusion in all forms of written communication undermines investments of money, time and energy.
In coaching writers I offer this encouragement: "Make what you write ... say what you mean."
To achieve that goal requires precision — the basis for concise, clear and compelling writing.
One of my most painful memories: a series on juvenile delinquency that I wrote as a rookie reporter for the Minneapolis Star. Revisiting it now, I do not hesitate to describe it as unreadable and interminable. It is filled with mind-numbing bureaucratic jargon. Not a single juvenile delinquent appears in the series, and, as a result, nothing human that a reader can connect with.