Dearest Readers,
We opine upon a societal concern. Professional vernacular has grown mundane with its limited approach to defining business speak, in essence cutting the dictionary in twain. The onset of artificial intelligence should have you looking at your reflection in the mirror wondering, how artificial is this intelligence mask that I wear? What if work emails reflected a simpler time?
The Elizabethan Era to be exact.
A stress-free time where we didn’t have to worry about things like social security and saving for retirement because we wouldn’t live that long. Gas prices would hold no bearing upon our conscious because we traveled by horse. Or not travel at all metaphorically chained to our farmsteads and our bountiful hoes for tilling. These days may be long gone but like the mythical phoenix, their forms of speech could rise amongst our digital ashes. Let us take a journey to see what those emails may pertain.
A cubical waif may say:
‘Thank you for your email regarding quarterly reports.’
But how about instead:
‘I have received your correspondence and look forward to attending to the needs of the document but alas, the harvest was sparse this year and with a cold, harsh winter stalking us like wounded prey, waiting to strike the lethal blow, we must hunker down. My diligence over the next quarter will be to keep our hearts warm and bellies full as we weather the merciless frost. Every morning that we wake to the echoed caw of a singular black crow balancing on a jagged leafless branch set upon a barren white landscape is another day we’ve dodge death’s embrace. In God’s good time, I will address the quarterly report but as we directly stare into the reaper’s empty eye sockets I but wonder, what if there is more to life than hitting my sales goal?’
A roguish salesmen may start a cold email with:
‘My name is Dean Dasker, do you have 7 minutes to talk about how I can improve your company with our enhanced paperclips?’
But think how much more fruitful this response would be:
‘Rejoice! The fates have dined to bring us together, we must not squander our destinies. As I write this by candlelight, quill pirouetting across the page, brimming with excitement, thunderous cannons boom over the horizon as the Napoleonic Wars rages over homeland and yet I can’t help but feel elated that we will avoid the chaos erupting across the lands, instead embracing order in the form of a paperclip designed by Lionel and Roger Penrose themselves. Let us hunt foxes upon horseback this coming St. Swithin’s Day while we shed light over shadows of ignorance.’
A naïve may resign with:
‘I would like to put in my two-week notice.’
But suggest:
‘Before the moon begins to wane I must depart, our paths never to cross again. I will bear the scars acquired within these halls proudly as I journey through the hellish landscape of corporate chutes and ladders. Only time will tell whether my pilgrim progress will be for naught but as my thirteenth year draws to an end -my life, already half over- I fear I must risk the attempt to overcome the contrived labors placed before me or die a wrinkled old man at twenty-six envisioning with milky white eyes a life that could have been. As the premier falconer in all the lands, I will have my trusty raptor at my side. It is with a hint of nostalgic sorrow and a twinkling of future hope that I end this note with the same advice we imparted upon one another at the end of every working day: beware the French.’
In conclusion, “there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought”
And so I bid your Grace and the rest heartily farewell,
The Journalist