For the last 8 years, just about any time I wasn’t in front of a computer, I was on a baseball field. I started coaching my son in tee ball, and we just graduated from the “majors.”
During a game a few years ago, when the kids were ages 8 and 9, I was having a little trouble with my shortstop. He was facing the wrong direction – not with his back to the infield, but kind of angled to the side instead of facing home plate.
I called out to him and tried to fix it. Nothing. I tried explaining again. Didn’t work. After the third time, he yelled back, loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Coach, I don’t understand what you’re saying to me.”
We all had a good laugh, but it was the best feedback he could have given. After the inning, I took him aside and explained it so he could understand.
I’ve held onto that lesson not only in coaching, but in my professional life. After all, the last thing I’d ever want after writing or editing something is for the reader to respond, “I don’t understand what you’re saying to me.”
Too often in corporate writing we see complicated topics that aren’t boiled down to something a newbie would understand. We forget we’re so much closer to it, so we think if we get it, everyone else will too. Or we add flowery language and corporate mumbo jumbo – words that that don’t actually say anything and only further confuse the reader.
But hey, it sounds good. You know what sounds better, though? Hearing this: “I understand exactly what you’re saying to me.”