In Writing and Apologies, The Lead Says it All

English teachers like myself work tirelessly trying to teach our students the importance of a good lead.

A lead is the first thing a reader will see, introducing the content and the tone and the reliability of the piece. It provides a statement in it's attempt to lure the reader not only regarding the subject matter at hand, but also the type of reader whose attention it is attempting to grasp. A good lead speaks volumes in approximately 100 words or less.

Roy Peter Clark, one of my favorite writers about writing, even went so far as to rank the leads of Pulitzer Prize submissions, citing one in particular that effectively uses 25 semicolons. Now that one goes straight to the heart of this grammar guru, dangling that prize on a shiny hook.

It is in a lead that we learn where a piece of writing is headed, and it's also a great indicator of where a conversation is headed. I have found that's especially true if the conversation is an apology.

The apology I write about today was a fairly public one. Another star in the world of professional sports acted boorish and awful, exploding in a tantrum of arrogance and villainy. Which is fine unless you're caught on tape. She was. The apology came a day later, through Twitter, America's favorite place for apologies.

The apology was fine. It hinted at remorse. It accepted responsibility. It could have been dowright genuine. Except. . .

There was a qualifier. That qualifier came in the form of the lead, the first couple of words, the attention-getting precursor that shines a light onto the truth of what is coming. Her lead? "In an intense and stressful moment. . ."

And there it is. As a reader, I can stop there. The tone is set. I can see where this is going. My actions were bad, I'm sorry, there's no excuse for what I did, except for the one I'm leading with. Even though she's taking full responsibility, it isn't really her fault. Her emotions got the best of her. She was pushed into these actions by extreme provocation. Her guard was down. This isn't who she really is.

Except that it is. It is a tired excuse, but an age old one. I was tired. I was really frustrated. I was having a bad day. I was at my wits end. I was just really upset and I took it out on you. But the reality of frustration and stress and fatigue and irritation is that our "guard" is, in fact, down. The guard that we put up to protect others from our real selves, the carefully crafted persona, thick and vibrant as makeup, is only a facade. That is who we want to be. Or perhaps more likely, who we want others to think that we are.

But behind that mask is who we really are. And that mask gets washed away under intensity and fatigue. Who are you really? You are who you are when you are unguarded, unprepared, unexpecting, and bare of all comforts. How do you treat you're wife when you're tired? How does your parenting change under duress? What words and behaviors accompany you in a gym or a field when an official's call goes against you? What kind of a student, employee, sibling, and citizen are you when you haven't been treated well? Or, as Snickers commercials have so entertainingly reminded us, when you're "hangry"?

It's an important question. Duress doesn't bring out the worst in everyone; it just brings out the most real. And rather than excusing away our behavior on those days, perhaps we more appropriately can use those days to see just how loving, just how open-minded, just how forgiving and patient we are.

I've come to understand that most days I get a chance to see this. Most days I will get tired, stressed, frustrated, or wronged. If I'm going to face the real me on most days, then I better go to work improving the real me that everyone will see.