I Hate the Word “Content”

I’m not fond of “material” either. I use them in conversation and writing, but not often. Both words make me think of polystyrene peanuts. They are metaphors for the worst motivation for writing: you have a site or a show or a slick brochure and you must fill it with copy or “-graphs,” lines of text that match the pictures.

You need the opera to sell the soap.

Writing is not filler. It’s not an excuse for design. It’s the other way around; good design supports the words, otherwise, the good design is useless.

Great motion pictures, software applications, and even commercial products begin with thought. They begin with scripts and human needs. Watch the movie trailers coming out next month. Some clearly started with thoughtful written screenplays, while others pedal clichéd content to match the actors’ handsome, inexpressive faces.

You know the difference right away.

You can do the same thing with the news. Local reporters have so little time and resources to produce a story these days, they often write their accident report or human-interest piece on the way to the location, before they give interviews or attain any facts. Once they get the details, it’s a game of Mad Libs.

Alternatively, Ken Burns only writes a documentary after he has finished with all of the interviews. That’s why his work always gives us new insight to history—because he creates the space to listen and he doesn’t have any expectations for what he will hear.

The exceptional writing of a fully funded investigative journalist will smack us with the strangeness of reality. Great writing avoids design. It delivers new ideas through entirely unheard of strategies.

Content and material and copy always struck me as words designed to avoid the word “writing” because writing has so much baggage. It’s an awkward and embarrassing process. No business wants to hire a “writer” because writing is hard and writers are difficult. A good writer can write a bad book.

There’s no business plan or algorithm for writing something genuine.

“Creative” is also business-speak designed to avoid a similar word to writing. A suit-and-tie creative is always better to hire than a passionate and unpredictable “artist.”

It’s no wonder some people think Artificial Intelligence will replace writers and writing just like robotic arms build cars. Just set a hundred robots in front of hundred typewriters and you’ll get Shakespeare. Robots, monkeys, humans—they’re all the same thing.

I got hold of a piece of writing during the holiday season that was a great example of content. I dubbed it “Winebot.” It was a letter from a Long Island vineyard owner meant to go out with his holiday gifts.

The letter was hand signed by said vineyard owner, but he referenced himself in the third person throughout the note. This wasn’t a style choice. He didn’t write it. The loving description of the handpicked vintage for the recipient read like a cheap encyclopedia entry, a cut-and-paste job of facts.

Everybody got the exact same bottle, I’m positive.

The grammar was not just poor; it was awkward, cumbersome, and combined with thesaurus words that no one, not even a sommelier, would use in real conversation. It condescended; not only did it use big words, it over-explained cliché references that a high school student should recognize. I sincerely hope it was assembled by something artificial, for the sake of vineyard interns everywhere.

Nobody cared about this letter and so it did the opposite of what was intended. In all kinds of nuanced ways it exposed itself as a Frankenstein’s monster instead of the warm communication of a friend. The gift giving wasn’t a genuine gesture, but an annual obligation that required content.

The hay that cradled the bottle in the crate and kept it from shattering en route did a better job of supporting the effort than a single word from Winebot.

The filler outdid the material.