Writing Boots

On communication, professional and otherwise.

Plumbers Have to Come to You. Speechwriters, Too.

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The Lorax spoke for the trees. I speak for the speechwriters. So I hate to side with anyone who refuses to hire one, for any reason.

But a speechwriter wrote me this week complaining that a Huge Corporation refuses to hire him because “they insist” he lives in the place where the headquarters are, “which won’t work for my wife and me.” He’s offered to spend three weeks per month working in an office the company has in his locale, and one week per month in the HQ town, “but no luck. Any advice?”

I had none, unless the CEO was going to be giving speeches quoting Alexis de Tocqueville on topics like the importance of civic organizations and the virtues of capitalism.

Sorry, but outside of politics, there is no such thing as pure speechwriter anymore. Thus, a tagline we permanently attached to the PSA logo several years ago, broadening the speechwriting assignment to “communicators who help leaders lead.”

How in the world are you supposed to help a leader lead in one city, while phoning it in from another? How exquisite a writer, how omniscient a communication counselor would you have to be to beat out, in a job competition, someone who was willing to be there for the boss, in the moment, in the rhythm of the business, whenever a thing went down, or either of you had a good idea, day in and day out, in the belly of the corporate culture?

I used to argue that communicators ought to have offices with doors and a permission to hole up occasionally to think hard and write something big. And I still would defend that—just as I recommend the use of independent speechwriters to get a fresh take on a weary topic or a thought leadership moon shot for a big platform.

But generally, in-house exec comms is no longer a place for literary dilettantes.

I replied: “Honestly, I agree they should have someone in [the HQ town). I don’t think exec comms, for a leaders of a company that really believes in it as I think Huge Corporation does, can be done remotely, very well.”

NEXT!

Scrootened No More: Chicago’s Mayor Daley Provides a Mysteriously Masterly Lesson in Life After the Spotlight

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“Scrutiny?” Mayor Richard M. Daley famously asked a gaggle of reporters during the first of his six terms. “What else do you want? Do you want to take my shorts? Give me a break. . . . Go scrutinize yourself! I get scrootened every day, don’t worry, from each and every one of you.”

Yesterday it was reported that the late mayor suffered a minor stroke. He’s back home, his family said. This is the first I’ve heard about Daley, a noisy and ubiquitous presence for the first two decades of my life in Chicago, in years.

How do you enjoy that much fame or suffer that much notoriety—and just disappear, as Mayor Daley has over the last 15 years of his life. It’s actually a question I asked when Daley left office, in a piece for the Chicago Reader titled, “Postmayoral Advice for Daley.” For that piece, I spoke with a bunch of former Chicago and Illinois pols, who admitted they struggled in exile.

“It’s hard to let go of power, to voluntarily step aside,” former Illinois Governor Jim Edgar told me. “Life goes on without you, though it’s hard to believe it can. You’re not in the center anymore. People are not rushing to you to get your opinion. Your successor does things differently, and you take it personally.”

Former Illinois Attorney General and U.S. Senator Roland Burris said he was bewildered, watching C-SPAN. “It’s as if you were never there,” he told me, confessing that every morning he had to tell himself, “You’ve gotta get up and get going.”

Former Chicago Mayor Jane Byrne told me she never really retired from Chicago politics, and still considered herself a player, citing as an example her public objection to Daley’s overnight demolition of Meigs Field in 2003. “Do I just sit in the corner? No. I am watching everything.” How did she think Daley would handle being out of power? “I think it’s going to be very hard for him,” she said.

I thought so too, honestly. I had some public dealings with Daley’s administration, but the only time I saw Daley in person was when he showed up to throw out the first pitch at a little league baseball game. Far from the often blustery figure he seemed at press conferences, he seemed weirdly shy and a little awkward—but also palpably, bashfully happy to be, as he would put it, “Da Mare Chicago.” Happier, far happier, than any of his successors have ever seemed to be.

A lot of people would say Daley’s been so quiet in these intervening years because he had a lot—especially some insanely scandalous financial moves he made during his last term—to be quiet about.

But I marvel at his silence, still. And at the silence of anyone who has become used to having their voice heard. Maybe I’ll write about people like that next. Speaking of Richard, where has Simmons been all these years …

An Addled Attorney Is Worse Than an Ineffectual Pastor

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I’ve said it to fellow Trump haters until I’ve annoyed them and bored myself: To put yourself in the shoes of Trump lovers, you might think of the way you regard a lawyer you’ve hired to represent you in a high-stakes lawsuit.

You care amazingly little about that person’s manners and communication style. Your attitude is generally, “Whatever it takes.”

When you’re looking for an attorney, “civility” doesn’t top the list of traits you’re seeking. You might sheepishly describe your attorney even to another nice liberal friend as “a little ruthless.” And that nice liberal friend might wink back.

Intellectual consistency or honesty doesn’t matter to you either. If this argument isn’t working, try that one!

And your attorney’s religious beliefs sure as shit don’t matter to you. This is war.

But all that only holds as long as the attorney is winning. Unlike your pastor, who might be daft and even a little drunk, your attorney is not a lovable loser. With your attorney there is no, “Bless her heart.”

And a bad attorney looks very bad indeed. Writing a magazine story about a policeman suspected of murdering his wife years ago, I dealt with the cop’s lawyer, who offered to sell me a picture of said missing wife, posing nude, with an automatic rifle.

Questionable tactically: Would the publication of this picture have made people assume the cop was innocent? Unforgivable practically: Did this guy really think a respectable magazine would pay for a picture like this? Far from helping the cop’s cause, the move only made for more damning copy.

As the mists seem to gather around Trump—perhaps mists of age, but certainly mists of narcissistic loss of perspective and focus—he and his American “clients” cannot expect a soft landing like President Carter got, after his own ineffectual administration. A hard rain’s gonna fall.

Maybe that’s why Trump is going on TV tonight, to read from the Bible.

Beyond too little.

Beyond too late.