Most people think good writing starts on the page.
It doesn't.
It starts before the page with the decisions you make before you open a blank document.
I learned this the hard way. Early in my career I'd jump straight into drafting. The words would come easily enough. But something would feel off. The message would be accurate but flat. Technically complete but somehow unconvincing.
The problem was never the writing.
It was what happened before the writing.
Confusing drafts are symptoms of unclear thinking upstream. And unclear thinking upstream usually means skipping three questions that should be answered before the first word hits the page.
What outcome am I responsible for — not what asset am I producing?
Most communicators start with the deliverable.
"I need to write an email."
"I need to draft a script."
"I need a set of talking points."
That framing feels logical. But it's where things go wrong.
When you start with the asset, you optimize for the asset. The email gets written. The script gets drafted. The deck gets built. And somewhere in that process, the actual purpose gets buried under the effort to produce something polished.
The shift that changed how I work was simple.
Before I think about what I'm producing, I ask what needs to be different because this message exists.
What do people need to know, feel, or do that they don't know, feel, or do right now? And how will I know if that happened?
That question reorients everything.
A change announcement isn't a document. It's an attempt to move people from uncertainty to understanding.
An executive note isn't a summary. It's a decision-making tool.
A video script isn't content. It's a leader's voice reaching people who need to hear something specific at a specific moment.
When you anchor to the outcome, the writing becomes strategic rather than cosmetic.
The test I use: write the call to action before anything else. If you can't articulate what you want someone to do or feel or understand by the end, you're not ready to start. The absence of a clear call to action almost always means the thinking isn't finished yet.
Who emotionally owns this message — and what are they carrying into it?
Every important message has what I think of as a center of gravity.
Not the broadest audience. Not "all employees" or "key stakeholders."
The group that will feel the impact most intensely. The people who will read every word carefully, looking for what the message confirms or contradicts about their situation. The ones whose reaction will determine whether the message lands or backfires.
If you don't identify that group before you start writing, you end up writing for everyone — which means writing for no one in particular.
Here's what I've found consistently true: fear and desire shape how people read a message more than any vocabulary choice you make. A technically accurate sentence lands completely differently depending on what the reader is afraid of losing or hoping to gain.
Imagine you're writing a message about a major system change for a team that has already been through two failed implementations. They're not reading your carefully crafted opening paragraph neutrally. They're reading it through the filter of everything that went wrong before. Every reassurance sounds like the same reassurance they heard last time. Every positive framing lands as spin until proven otherwise.
Understanding that emotional landscape doesn't mean softening the message. It means writing to the actual reader rather than an imagined one.
When you know what your center of gravity audience is carrying into the message, you stop writing around their fear and start writing through it. That's when alignment actually happens.
What truth does this moment deserve — not what's easiest to say?
This is the hardest question. And the most important one.
Every significant message has a version of itself that is safe, and a version that is true. The safe version smooths the edges, qualifies the difficult parts, and leaves everyone feeling that nothing particularly honest was said. The true version contains something people recognize instantly — a piece of reality that's been present in the room but unspoken.
The difference between those two versions is what I think of as the clarity edge.
It's the willingness to say the thing no one wants to wordsmith into oblivion.
We saw it with Nike’s CEO Elliott Hill. He could have talked about strategic repositioning and market dynamics at Nike’s recent all-hands meeting. Instead he said he was tired of talking about fixing the business. And the room exhaled.
Before I write anything with real stakes, I ask: what truth does this moment deserve? Not what's comfortable. Not what's been approved by six stakeholders. What is actually true about this situation that the audience already knows but hasn't heard anyone say out loud?
If I dodge that truth, the message feels padded. Technically complete but somehow hollow.
If I name it, the message feels real. And real messages move people in ways that safe ones never do.
Why This Matters
These three questions aren't a writing framework.
They're a thinking practice.
And the reason they matter is that most communication problems diagnosed as writing problems are actually thinking problems. The message is unclear because the outcome was never defined. It's emotionally flat because the audience was never really considered. It feels hollow because the truth at the centre of it was avoided.
Fix the thinking and the writing follows.
Not always easily. Not always quickly.
But when you know what you're trying to achieve, who you're really writing for, and what truth the moment deserves — the page stops being blank.
It starts being inevitable.
Until next time,
Ana
Clarity isn’t corporate - it’s human.