A sneeze takes three seconds. That's roughly what you've got.
Three seconds before the scroll. Three seconds before the next ad. Three seconds before they decide you're not worth their attention.
I've written enough long copy to know this makes writers uncomfortable. We want to explain. We want to build the argument, layer by layer, until the conclusion becomes inevitable. We want to show our work.
But attention isn't given. It's borrowed. And the terms of the loan are non-negotiable: be interesting immediately, or return it unused.
The Economist built its brand on six-word billboards. "I never read The Economist. - Management trainee, 42." That's it. Argument made. Case closed. Ego bruised.
Apple announced the iPod with five words: "1,000 songs in your pocket." Not a paragraph about storage capacity, battery life, or audio quality. Just the thing that mattered.
Some will argue that complicated products need complicated explanations. Perhaps. But complicated explanations don't need complicated words. Einstein proved relativity with E=mc². Four characters. The most elegant piece of science communication ever written.
The problem is we've confused length with depth. We think if we say more, we've said something more important. But usually, we've just said the same thing less memorably.
Hemingway once wrote a story in six words: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." Every writing teacher uses it as an example because it demonstrates something crucial — brevity isn't about being short. It's about trusting your reader to do the work you don't need to do.
So here's the test: write your message. Then cut it in half. Then cut it again. What's left? If it's still intact, you've found the thing worth saying. If it collapses, you never had a message in the first place.
Three seconds. Make them count.