James May’s advice to start a car column with the smallest possible subject has become a quiet benchmark for writers who want to avoid the sprawling overviews that can drown a piece in jargon.
Why narrow topics work
When May spots a fellow columnist attempting to sum up the entire automotive industry in a single essay, he reportedly reacts with mock alarm, calling the effort “too big.” In contrast, a column focused on the click of a Volvo’s central‑locking system or the shape of a Nissan Qashqai’s rear fog light fits neatly into a single page and offers readers a concrete detail they might otherwise miss.
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Such tight framing lets a writer stay on point and gives the audience a clear takeaway. It also sidesteps the temptation to drift into unrelated anecdotes, which can make a column feel unfocused. By zeroing in on a tiny element—like the scent of BMW screenwash—writers can explore the subject fully without the need for broad industry statistics.
How the rule played out at evo
After more than two decades of contributing to evo, the author recalls his first column in the February 2003 issue of the magazine. He set the tone by declaring himself a “crashing nerd” who thinks about cars all the time, a statement that aligned with May’s emphasis on authenticity. When he later criticized personalized number plates as “for vacuous idiots,” the ad sales team pushed back, fearing lost revenue. The editor, however, defended the columnist’s right to voice unpopular opinions, reinforcing the idea that a column should say things other sections won’t.
Subsequent pieces ranged from a tongue‑in‑cheek look at Ferrari’s merchandising to a story about a Montego estate and a Rover 75. Even when he veered into the absurd—fabricating a rock band or attempting an epic poem—he kept the focus on a single, often quirky, element, staying true to May’s principle.
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It’s worth noting that this narrow‑topic strategy mirrors techniques used in other specialist journalism, where depth often outweighs breadth. For example, technology reviewers frequently dedicate entire pieces to the feel of a single keyboard switch, rather than attempting to cover all aspects of a laptop’s performance. This parallel highlights the broader applicability of May’s rule beyond automotive writing.
In practice, the rule encourages writers to ask themselves what singular detail will intrigue a reader most. Whether it’s the chirp of a door latch or the texture of a dashboard material, the answer guides the column’s structure and keeps the piece anchored.
