Blank Space


Q&A, the last session of a children's hospital retreat weekend. A hand goes up.

"I noticed you used a lot of blank slides in both of your presentations. I was wondering why."

I've been doing it for years. Nobody had ever asked me that question before.


💡 ONE IDEA WELL

Here's roughly what I told them.

A slide full of text asks your audience to do two things at once: read and listen.

Most people can't do both well, so they pick one.
Usually reading, because reading is faster than listening, and the brain would rather finish the sentence in front of it than wait for you to finish yours.

Cognitive load doesn't clear itself.
It needs a gap.
A slide with nothing on it removes the reading option entirely.
For a few seconds there is nothing to do except listen, and think, and catch up.

Without that gap, the audience does what my kids do when I take them for a walk by the lakes. They scatter, each one on their own track, chasing whatever's caught their eye, and they get to the end without ever really walking together.

An audience does the same thing with an idea. Nothing to slow them down, and they each arrive at their own version of your point, usually before you've finished making it.

The blank slide isn't empty. It's the only moment in the whole talk where the room has nowhere to look except you.


🧰 LESS MESS, MORE MESSAGE

Here's the part that complicates my own answer.

I told the room it was for their cognitive load.
It is.

But nobody in that Q&A could tell what my mechanism actually was.
They didn't know if slide fourteen was the third blank slide of the day or the first.
They didn't know how long my notes were, or whether I was working from a single bold word or a full script.

The audience never experiences the technique. They only experience the result.

Which means the blank slide was never a service to them. It was a test for me.

I try to avoid a lectern, I'd rather walk the room and talk as I need to.
So when the slide goes dark, there's nothing left to hide behind.
No text. No furniture. Just me, in the room, saying it.

Dead letters on a screen can carry a talk. They can't carry you.


🛠️ TRY THIS

You don't need slides for this. If you're mid-explanation and about to lose the room, stop.

Not a beat before your next sentence, a real few seconds of nothing, long enough for them to catch up before you take them further.

You don't even need to have built the blank slide in advance.

In both PowerPoint and Keynote, pressing B mid-presentation blacks the screen out on the spot, W does the same in white.

You can create the gap the moment you realise you need one, not just the ones you planned three weeks ago.

If you do build them in, drop the blank slide wherever you're about to make a point that needs the room to sit with it. Not every transition, just the ones that matter.

Then check your notes.

If they're full sentences, you're one bad night's sleep away from reading them aloud.
Swap the sentences for a handful of bold words, the concepts you need to hit, and trust yourself for the rest.

You'll wander a little. That's fine. It beats getting to the end without the room walking with you.


🧭 ASK YOURSELF THIS

What would happen if the screen went black?


Speak soon,

Andy

PS. If you're heading to CCIM this year, come along and stare at my blank screens in person.

GIVE TALKS PEOPLE ACTUALLY REMEMBER.

One idea a week to help you teach and present with more clarity, confidence, and calm. No fluff. No scripts. Just practical tools that land.

Read more from GIVE TALKS PEOPLE ACTUALLY REMEMBER.

Someone who knows I care more about slide design than is strictly healthy for a grown man asked me recently, do you actually have to attribute every image you use? I thought about the last workshop I'd sat in on. I'm in the third row of a paediatric workshop. The slide behind the speaker is titled Red Flags (and Spots): a girl on her mother's lap, snotty-nosed, a little flat, a scatter of small reddish marks across her shins that could be nothing. "She's off her food, temp's up a bit, mum...

There's a slide we've all sat through. A table lifted straight from the paper, axis labels too small to read from row three, a red box drawn around the number the presenter actually wants you to notice. What's in the box? They say the same thing every time. You don't need to read all this, just look at the red box. Except you try anyway. You can't not. Your eyes go to the numbers while your ears try to keep pace with the sentence being spoken over them. You manage this for about four seconds,...

The paramedic on the screen has a glow. Not sweat. Not stage light. Something under the skin, orange-red, like a Ready Brek advert built by someone with better software than Weetabix ever had. The speaker is talking about cognitive overload during resuscitation. The flood of information a clinician has to filter in the worst four minutes of someone's life. Every slide behind them is doing the opposite of what the words are asking for. I lean forward. Not because I'm gripped. Because I want to...