My wife and I went to a screening of Unfortunate Brothers last night. It’s an affecting documentary by Dodge Billingsley about the political, economic, and cultural divide of North and South Korea.

The film is touching, insightful, and kept me engaged for 55 minutes. It also made me sympathize with the plight of North Koreans.

The only problem: The movie was screened to a group of eggheads at BYU, my alma mater, and all the academic and naive student types that congregate there. And not just any kind of academics—the “international relations” kind that like to talk political theory, solve other country’s problems from afar, and use big words to make themselves feel like they’re contributing to society.

For example: After the screening, an expert panel of three pleasant fellows including the filmmaker fielded questions from about 80-100 attendees. The second “question” came from an assumed student that liked to hear himself talk. He talked about how the movie “moved” him. In between lengthy pontifications, he said, “I guess my question is” three times. He talked a lot. He was the opposite of concise.  (more…)

Describing someone’s current state as “emotional” is about as helpful as saying someone is human. Let me explain.

Whenever someone wins something on camera, they often cry as a result and describe their state of being as “emotional.” Athletes do this. Celebrities do this. People that feel blessed do this.

But it’s a vague adjective in the temporary sense of the verb “to be” (i.e. estar in Latin). Of course these people are emotional. The audience can obviously see that. What these victors and fortunate people on camera should really be saying is that they are overjoyed, elated, incredibly happy, deeply thankful; anything to more accurately describe what they’re feeling rather than the cliche, diluted, and catch-all “emotional.”

That said, emotional succeeds as a permanent descriptor of the verb “to be” (ser for any Spanish or Portuguese readers out there).

For example, I’m an emotional guy (right Lindsey!?), which means I cry more than most men, I’m enthusiastic, I’m impulsive, I’m responsive, I’m romantic, and I feel like a jerk after making even minor mistakes.

So next time you’re feeling an intense feeling, try to describe what it is you’re actually feeling. You’ll make a better impression, learn more about yourself, and enjoy the moment even more.

If there’s one writing habit I simply adore, it’s seeing a writer use “back in” when referencing previous years or months.

For example: “Back in 1845…” or “Back in December.” In such instances, the leading “back in” solidifies my otherwise horrible sense of time. Without that “back in,” I’d be completely lost.

Just today, reading a cryptic “In 1997″ left me utterly confused. Since I have no concept of past, present, or future tense verb usage, I wasn’t 100% certain the writer was referencing history.

Worse is when a concise writer references a previous month without the oh-so-enlightening “back in.” After all, it’s not like the reader can assume you’re talking about a previous month, especially since you didn’t also reference a year. Case in point: Is “In July” talking about past July or next July? It’s ambiguous. I mean, next we’ll be asking writers to say “next” when referencing the future. It’s unheard of.

So remember writers: Never assume a reader understands chronology. As such, always say “back in” when referring to the past. It’s not wordy or presumptuous at all.

Ask any American what they think of the English Royal Family, and even the most liberal voter will tell you it’s a waste of taxpayer money (since the family is powerless). Whether or not that’s the case, the level of U.S. government waste far exceeds that of the Royal Family.

For example, the British Royal Family costs the UK taxpayer $64 million per year, excluding travel and security. That’s about a dollar per person. The travel budget for the U.S. president alone is several times that.

The Homeland Security Agency, which like the Royal Monarchy, is suppose to make citizens feel all warm and fuzzy inside, costs the U.S. taxpayer $55 billion a year! What do we get in return? Mandatory shoe removal at airports, 15,000 wasted jobs, a failed alert system, and more exciting deployments for the Armed Forces (you know, the people who should be managing homeland security in the first place, like they honorably and successfully did prior to HSA’s creation).

And that’s just one of hundreds of wasteful agencies.

So the next time you get all high and mighty on Team America for not wasting money on an opulent spokesfamily, ask yourself what U.S. department was watched by more than 2.5 billion people in a mostly favorable light this morning?

I’m amazed by the phrase “agree to disagree.”

It’s a lazy expression. It’s contradictory. Yet it works. But only because it’s a cliché.

If it weren’t a common expression, the receiver would dismiss it as being stupid and probably stay on the offensive. (See Mister English Teacher: Who said clichés don’t have a place in language. Writing never, but speech, yes.)

In my own life, I’ve agreed to disagree (or agreed to differ) on numerous occasions. It’s funny how it always seems to work in terminating thought. It’s like the white flag of verbal disagreement. ”Oh, I give up.”

More impressive, however, is that “agreeing to disagree” instantly facilitates civility and tolerance. Who would of thought that a dumb cliché could be capable of such a thing?

Says The Hot Word, my new favorite blog:

Many people believe Moon Unit Zappa and her 1982 single Valley Girl are responsible for popularizing this usage of “like” precisely at the moment Ms. Zappa sang, “It’s like, barf me out.” In reality, the slang use of the word “like” has been a part of popular culture dating as far back as 1928 and a cartoon in the “New Yorker” that depicts two woman discussing a man’s workspace with a text that reads, “What’s he got – an awfice?” “No, he’s got like a loft.” The word pops up again in 1962’s A Clockwork Orange as the narrator proclaims, “I, like, didn’t say anything.”

Not only that, but the slang interjection was even found in a novel circa 1886. Tubular!

Fascinating.

OMG, when did we start talking like txt msgs?
One possibility, Kiesling proposes, is that some of these acronyms actually become a whole new thought, expressing something different than the words that form them. For example: “You wouldn’t say, `OMG, that person just jumped off a cliff,’” he explains. “But you’d say, `OMG, do you see those red pants that person is wearing?’”

I went to lunch today with an old business school buddy. We always have a good time making fun of brainless ideas while trying to make a honest buck. Today, we ridiculed some of the following business cliches, which are beyond stale and should never be used; otherwise you’ll sound like everyone else and influence few: (more…)

Nearing the end of Out of Africa (review forthcoming), I couldn’t help but notice how author Isak Dinesen used a lone “fortune” as opposed to the more popular “good fortune” when she wrote:

“Natives have such a feeling for, and faith in, fortune, that now, after one success, they may have begun to trust that all was going to be well, and that I was to stay on the farm.” p370

By using fortune alone, which itself implies success, Dinesen caused me, the reader, to pause and consider what she wrote, rather than skimming a cliche. You too can add more meaning in writing by avoiding clutter adjectives, which dilute the meaning of words. A good reminder.

I think rhetorical questions can be a persuasive and colorful form of language, but only when left unanswered.

I’m not sure how or when it started, but answering your own insincere rhetorical question seems to be increasingly popular these days, especially among public relation and business folk. Here’s how they do it: “Am I happy about [insert any controversial issue here]? No. But… [insert any justification here].” Worse still, rhetorical answer lovers will often string together three negative questions, followed by a mega justification. Dumb.

Good communication is concise and precise, replete with active voice and direct sentences. In other words, I don’t like when people answer their own rhetorical questions.