After nearly 35 years as a talk show host, I’ve had many young broadcasters ask me, “What’s the secret?” My answer always surprises them because it’s so short.

“Have something to say.”

Most expect advice about voice, pacing, interview techniques, social media or how to handle callers. Those things matter. But they’re secondary. If you don’t have an interesting idea, no amount of polish will keep an audience listening. The audience may admire your delivery for a while, but eventually it wants substance. It wants a reason to come back tomorrow.

The same principle applies to writing. Someone once asked me, “What makes a good writer?” My answer was the same: “Having something to say.” Good grammar helps. A large vocabulary helps. A clever turn of phrase helps. But readers don’t return because of sentence structure. They return because the writer consistently offers an insight, an argument or an observation they had not considered before. The style attracts attention. The ideas keep it.

That’s one reason the rise of artificial intelligence doesn’t worry me nearly as much as it worries some people. AI can make a sentence cleaner. It can tighten a paragraph. It can suggest a better headline, organize research and identify weaknesses in an argument. It can save a substantial amount of time in tracking down sources. Those are remarkable tools. But recently, a judge blasted an attorney whose legal brief cited cases that were either nonexistent or did not support the proposition for which they were cited. Blind and lazy reliance on AI was the likely culprit.

But AI cannot live your life for you. It cannot accumulate your experiences, your failures, your successes, your conversations or your observations. Those experiences are the bone marrow from which ideas are formed. AI can help you communicate an idea more effectively, but it cannot give you a lifetime from which original ideas are born.

The same lesson appears in coaching. NFL coach Bum Phillips once paid Hall of Fame coach Don Shula perhaps the greatest compliment one coach has ever paid another: “He can take his'n and beat your'n. And your'n and beat his'n.” In other words, if Shula had the better team, he would beat you. But if you had the better team, he might beat you anyway. Phillips was saying that great coaches first maximize their advantages. Then, every so often, they overcome their disadvantages.

When I practiced law, I came to a similar conclusion about trial lawyers. A good trial lawyer wins all the cases he should — and a few he shouldn’t. He doesn’t lose the cases he should win through poor preparation or weak advocacy. Then, once in a while, through judgment, preparation and persuasion, he wins a case the facts and the law suggest he would lose. The exceptional performer first masters the fundamentals. Only then can he elevate his craft.

In broadcasting, they ask about microphones instead of ideas. In writing, they ask about style instead of substance. In coaching, they ask about strategy instead of talent. In law, they ask about courtroom theatrics instead of judgment. The essentials come first. Everything else is an enhancement.

Technology can improve prose, summarize documents and organize research in seconds. Those advances are valuable, even remarkable, but none answers the question that matters most: What do you actually think? If you have nothing worth saying, technology won’t rescue you. If you do have something worth saying, technology becomes a force multiplier, enabling you to communicate more clearly and more efficiently.

Despite all the technological changes during my career — from computers and the internet, from radio to podcasts and now to artificial intelligence — the secret remains the same. It applies to writing a column, hosting a radio show, giving a speech or leading a meeting. People still hunger for fresh ideas, honest observations and genuine insight. They still appreciate someone who can make sense of confusing events or articulate what others struggle to say.

After all these years behind a microphone, through changing technologies and changing media, my answer remains the same. Every profession has an indispensable first principle. Miss it, and no amount of technique will save you.

Have something to say.

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