Tim Locum

A Harvard professor spent 40 years inside the human brain studying how language works. Wrote 9 books. Taught thousands of students. And he still thinks most people have no idea why their writing fails. Steven Pinker stood in front of a room and asked one question. Why is almost all writing academic, corporate, government, even most things you read online so painfully bad to get through? The room expected him to say laziness. Lack of practice. Poor education. He said none of those things. He called it the Curse of Knowledge. And once he explained it, I couldn't unsee it anywhere. Here's how it works. The moment you understand something deeply, something breaks inside you. You lose access to what it felt like before you knew it. The confusion you once had disappears so completely that you can no longer imagine anyone else feeling it. Your blind spots don't feel like blind spots anymore. They feel like obvious starting points. He told a story about a molecular biologist presenting at a TED event in front of 400 people. Brilliant man. Spent years on his research. Walked on stage and immediately started speaking in technical language without ever once explaining what problem he was trying to solve or why a single person in that room should care about it. People glazed over within two minutes. He finished his talk having no idea what had just happened. He thought he'd done well. That is the curse in its purest form. It doesn't announce itself. It disguises itself as competence. Then Pinker said the thing that stopped me cold. Bad writing is not about intelligence. It is not about effort. It is a failure of empathy. A writer who cannot imagine what it feels like to not know what they know will always lose their reader. Every time. No exceptions. His solution was not a writing technique. It was a person. He gave his drafts to his mother. She was educated, well-read, deeply intelligent. But she was not a cognitive scientist. She had no stake in his field. When she hit a sentence and her eyes slowed down, when she read a paragraph and looked up slightly confused, he didn't think she'd missed something. He went back and fixed the writing. Not her. The writing. That reframe alone is worth more than most writing advice combined. Then he moved to the thing almost every writer gets completely wrong. Words are not the point. Words are just a vehicle. What your reader actually walks away with is not the sentence you wrote. It is the image, the feeling, the physical thing that sentence was supposed to create inside their mind. If no image forms, nothing was communicated. The words passed through and left nothing behind. He asked his audience what a paradigm looks like. What a framework feels like. What color a concept is. Total silence. Because abstractions are invisible. They produce no picture, no texture, no sensation. They are placeholders that feel like meaning but deliver none. The writers who survived two hundred years did it because they had no choice but to be concrete. There was no jargon to retreat into. So instead of writing about aggression they wrote about the spirit of the hawk tearing into flesh. The reader felt it before they understood it. That is the only writing that actually works. The last thing he said was about brevity. And he defined it in a way I had never heard before. Brevity is not a low word count. Brevity is the discipline of cutting every single word that asks something of your reader without giving something back. Every unnecessary word is a small tax. Enough small taxes and the reader stops paying. He has carried three words with him for forty years. Omit needless words. He said that line does something almost no piece of advice manages to do. It demonstrates what it teaches. It is itself an example of the principle it describes. The best writing he ever produced came under an 800-word limit an editor refused to negotiate. The pressure of that constraint cut everything that was hiding inside the extra space. It always worked. Without fail. The Curse of Knowledge will not go away because you are aware of it. Awareness is not enough. The only move that actually works is finding someone outside your world, handing them what you wrote, and watching their face while they read it. Not reading it for them. Watching them. The moment their face shows even a flicker of confusion, you have found exactly where your writing failed. That is the whole masterclass.

If you were as half as bad at your job as C.B. Bucknor is at his, you’d be unemployed. Stevie Wonder could literally have made the correct call here just from hearing his fucking foot hit the bag.

I’m usually a strong tipper. I respect the work and understand how tough restaurant jobs can be—but tipping is still tied to service. Tonight started off rough. I walked in, waited at a “please wait to be seated” sign, and got no acknowledgment. Eventually, I had to ask if they were even seating people. I got seated, ordered, food came out, and yes—the server checked in. But when it came time to leave, everything fell apart. I had cash ready—a $20 and a $10—and planned to ask for $5 back, leaving about a $7 tip on an $18 tab. I know I’m a one-top, so I try to tip a little extra to make up for it. The check gets dropped… and then nothing. No follow-up, no effort to close it out. I’m just sitting there, clearly ready to pay and leave. At a certain point, I’m not going to wait indefinitely just to hand someone a bigger tip. Total was $18.36. I left $20 and walked out. That’s not about being cheap—it’s about not being stuck waiting just to pay. If it takes longer to close out than it did to eat, something’s off. Take care of your customers, and they’ll take care of you.

Nebraska putting 4 players on the court. Duke’s last 10 seconds up 2. Florida helping and giving up the 3. Just a reminder the next time you’re at a high school game: mental mistakes happen at EVERY level. And screaming at 15-18 year olds from the stands isn’t changing that.