"So where are the people?"

That one sentence, written in graceful cursive on the margin of a newspaper clipping—one of my editorial page columns—caught my immediate attention. The comment came from the pen of Dale Davis, the former editor of the Philadelphia Bulletin. I had asked Dale, then retired from daily newspapering, to critique my writing and he had obliged by marking up, and returning, several of my columns.

I didn't like it, but he was right. I had crammed the column with facts and figures and an insider’s view of pending environmental legislation in Florida (where I was working), but nowhere did I address the human factor. When I quickly scanned the column I saw very few names. No people!

Davis had a simple test for editing what appeared in a newspaper: would the reader care? How would living, breathing people—the audience, as it were—be affected by what they read?

I had to agree with that approach. If I couldn’t tell the story in a way that moved people, that connected them to the subject, why would they bother lingering over my 700 words? In shorting the human angle, I had shorted my readers.

"So where are the people?"

Upon reflection, I could have made different, more personalizing choices in my editorial column. Many of the key environmental challenges in Florida began, and ended, with water. Why not challenge readers to look at the quantity of water they were using (easily calculated from their water bill) and then explain the consequences of growing household consumption? Or why not relate the stories of local fishing guides (by name) and their dismay at the effects of human run-off (like laundry detergent and motor oil) on fishing stocks? It wouldn't have been hard to find people to write about, and it would have made the column much more readable.

"So where are the people?"

As the years have passed, I have found that question helpful whenever I write, no matter what the topic, no matter what the vehicle—newspaper column or business memo, brief email or lengthy report. That question focuses me on the human—and that, in turn, helps me connect with my reader.

Asking that question—“So where are the people” — triggers a series of additional questions:

• Who are your readers?
• What is your purpose in writing?
• What is it you want to say?
• What story are you telling?
• What about the human factor?

Answering those questions has helped to tighten up my writing. I have been less likely to drift into the passive voice, to rely on jargon or a dry recitation of the facts, when I think about the people involved. When I am trying to clarify or explain, or to persuade, or to suggest a way of dealing with a problem, I imagine the faces of my readers (whoever it is I am writing for—my colleagues, my friends, my family). My writing becomes more direct, more conversational.

A gifted writer like Malcolm Gladwell understands that telling stories about people sparks interest; the opening of his fascinating book The Tipping Point immediately engages us with a consideration of, all things, yawning. Gladwell has chosen something very prosaic, but very human, to interest the reader:

Have you ever thought about yawning, for instance? Yawning is a surprisingly powerful act. Just by reading the two yawns in the previous two sentences—and the two additional yawns in this sentence—a good number of you will probably yawn within the next few minutes. Even as I'm writing this I've yawned twice. If you're reading this in a public place, and you've just yawned, chances are that a good proportion of everyone who saw you yawn is now yawning too, and a good proportion of the people watching the people who watched you yawn are now yawning as well, and on and on, in a ever-widening, yawning circle.

It is a very simple, but effective, humanizing of his subject—the concept of contagiousness—which could have been lost in a scientific discussion of epidemics and viruses. (It is nearly impossible to avoid yawning after reading this passage!). Dale Davis could never write next to Gladwell's paragraph: "So where are the people?"

More often than not, I would argue, this people-centered approach to writing will prove effective for anyone seeking to communicate: for doctors, lawyers, business executives, university professors, ministers, engineers...the list could go on. Will it work for complex or technical subjects? Can they be humanized without oversimplification or trivialization?

The answer lies at the heart of the communication process: while the subject matter may be complex, there's always a human receiving the message, the information, at the other end. Clear, concise writing that engages the reader will always win out over lengthy and dense prose. Whenever possible, stress the personal: what will your message mean to the reader?

That is not to advocate abandoning technical or difficult content. The idea is to make your writing relevant and understandable; make sure you are communicating in a way that is comfortable for your readers (if they are accustomed to acronyms or abbreviations or industry-specific terms, by all means use them.)

Even when communicating the complex or arcane, personal style in writing shouldn't be sacrificed. Several supporters of John Roberts cited the lucidity and elegance of his prose—writing about constitutional law, not the most engaging of subjects—during his Supreme Court confirmation hearings. Roberts could make the law come alive, it was said, with his witty and vigorous writing.

"So where are the people?"

Asking and answering that question—incorporating the human factor in your writing— and, by extension, engaging your readers, will make you a more effective communicator. It will help jump-start that vital imaginary conversation between writer and reader. And while it won't magically provide instant mastery of your memos, reports and PowerPoint presentations, addressing the question can offer (as Dale Davis reminded me more than a decade ago) a productive way to begin the writing process.