I’ve decided I need a jar. Not for swear words, but for generalisations. Every time I say “that sort of thing” or “et cetera,” I’ll have to drop a coin in. It turns out I use those phrases more than I’d like to admit. They’re my linguistic shortcut, a way of sweeping a whole armful of specifics under the rug of vagueness.
But vague words don’t do much good. They blur what could be sharp. They flatten what could be textured. They let me get away with being sloppy when precision is what’s needed.
A vague jar might cost me, but it could also sharpen me. Every clink of a coin would be a reminder: say what you mean. Name the thing, don’t gesture vaguely in its direction. Be specific, not sweeping. Precise, not fuzzy.
Soon enough, the coins would pile up. The vague jar would rattle every time I opened my mouth. At first it would buy me a coffee.
Give it a month and the jar could cover a meal — for two at a classy restaurant. By the end of the year, who knows? Maybe enough for a plane ticket. Not “a trip somewhere nice,” but a flight to Queenstown, New Zealand, to walk the Routeburn Track with its swing bridges, alpine meadows, and glacier-fed rivers.
And all the while, the jar keeps me honest. No more blurring the edges with “that sort of thing.” Every coin forces me to reach for the right word, the sharper word, the word that says exactly what I mean.
Precision costs me — but it also pays.
The moral of the story? Be precise. Say what you mean. And if you can’t—then make it expensive.
The Afterword 
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