How I won a dance contest at the Marriott

Disclaimer: This is the first of an occasional series of posts with no business purpose whatsoever. If you’re interested in business, marketing, and copywriting, but not interested how I won a dance contest at a teacher convention, then you’ll want to skip this.

I spent last week at Havi Brooks’ Destuckification Retreat, but I’m not going to talk about that here. (You’d be reading 150 pages about epiphanies and conversations with Monster, the three-inch-tall, stuffed monster who lives in a fire station in the front of my head.) Instead, this post tells the story of what happened the night before the retreat, when I managed to win a dance contest at a teachers convention at this hotel by the airport.

By the way, did you know teachers have dance contests at their conferences? I guess it’s one of those secrets we were never meant to discover.

I don’t usually crash teacher conferences. But my teacher-friend was in town, so my dance partner and I drove down to see her. (Yes, I have a dance partner. Yes, this is his full-time job.)

In the elevator on the way up to my friend’s room, we were joined by a quiet, gray-haired man (8th-grade-social-studies?). He looked set to retire for the evening, with a green canvas conference bag in one hand and a Corona with lime in the other. Two older ladies with their own green conference bags got on just as the doors were closing. “Nightcap?” they said. Everyone laughed knowingly, as if this was just the beginning of the debauchery about to unfold.

When my teacher-friend informed us there was a buffet and a dance party taking place downstairs, I knew we had to be there.

Luckily, I had come prepared with Saran-wrapped Stilton cheese and an apple—just in case someone asked for teacher ID. My teacher-friend said it would also help if one of us was carrying a water bottle. I decided to risk it and just go with the cheese. To me, being a teacher is a mindset. Something you inhabit from within.

We glided through the doors and into the ballroom as I repeated the mantra, “I am a teacher. I know all. I am powerful and wise. I belong.”

The dance party was just getting started. Teachers were beginning to flood the dance floor in their turtlenecks and high-waisted slacks. We watched them do the YMCA. We watched them do The Hustle and The Electric Slide. We even watched them do Thriller. It felt so wondrous, but adorable at the same time. Like coming upon a tribe of lions doing calisthenics.

Then a slow Journey song came on, and everyone evacuated the dance floor.

I realized we were the only people who didn’t know anyone in a room full of people who all kind of knew each other—and no one would ever see us again. It was like dance amnesty!

My dance partner and I raced over to the completely empty dance floor. We danced more badly to that song than we had ever danced before. Epileptically. You know the Journey song that goes from slow to fast? It was that song. By the end of the song, I could feel hundreds of teacher-eyes watching us, questioning, wondering. ‘What subject do THEY teach? Why are they dancing TOGETHER?’

Just when I thought I couldn’t dance any longer, the DJ (11th grade biology teacher?) walked up and thrust a home-made CD into my hands. Just the CD—no cover.

“Congratulations!!!!” he said. “You won the dance contest!!!!”

As soon as we won the dance contest (I’ve always wanted to say that), I decided we should quit while we were ahead. We couldn’t risk it. Plus, we needed to give the real teachers a chance.

We walked out of the ballroom as I repeated the mantra that had brought me this far. “I am a teacher. I know all. I am powerful and wise. I belong.” We escaped, undetected.

Strolling through the hotel that evening, basking in the soft glow of the words “dance contest winners!!!”, we would pass teachers, their gazes lingering in recognition. We were famous—but only for one night! Which is the best kind of fame there is.

Is this conference the highlight of every teacher’s year, professionally? It was definitely the highlight of mine (so what if it’s only February?)—and the perfect way to spend a night before a perfectly destuckified retreat.

22 things I neglected to mention about myself—including crises, felonies, and puppetry

Copylicious is turning 3 years old next month, and it’s time for me to be up front about a few things.

It seems I’ve managed to keep a good many things about myself to myself. In fact, today I made a list. I counted at least 22 things! That would be 22 key, life-shaping facts people who know me through the Internets or through working with me still don’t know about me. They’re not secrets or strategic omissions. They just never seem to come up. They can’t be simply dropped into conversation—professional or otherwise. I’ve tried. Haven’t found a way. Inspired and emboldened by Sarah Lacy’s recent shocking revelations (A secret origami obsession in her past? Admitted emotional outbursts caused by Jane Austen? Are you sure we weren’t separated at birth?), I’d like to attempt to remedy this error. Consider it my 3-Years-In-Business Truthiness Address.

1. My past indicates I seem to be drawn to working with convicted felons, people in crisis, and puppets.

Most people don’t know this, but I used to star in a live, Sesame-Street-like production for kids. Puppetry is where I learned it’s not what you say so much as how you say it. You wouldn’t believe the difference between “Father Abraham! Had Many Sons!” and “FATHER ABRAHAM HAD MANY SOOOOOOOONNNNNNS!!!!!” while whipping your wrist around in circles in a room full of 6- to 8-year-olds. I don’t understand why more serious actors don’t embrace puppetry. The shrieking laughter brought on by a live performance is more gratifying than anything a critic could ever write.

Working at the crisis line for a year (now there’s an awkward transition) wasn’t exactly what I’d call fun, but it was hard to ignore the feeling I was doing something that mattered. This is where I learned the basic principle that story is irrelevant. The details of what happened don’t matter nearly as much as we think they do. All the good stuff is in the feelings behind what happened. And what do you plan to do next to take care of yourself?

Pre-crisis line, I monitored felons at a halfway house in Santa Barbara. I really just entertained them by getting them to talk about their favorite books and betting them I could do a pull-up within 3 months or they’d have to read Roots by Alex Haley. Even then, it wasn’t about the job so much as finding a lightness, getting people excited about something beyond what was there.

2. As the recovering child of an amateur bodybuilder, I have attended more bodybuilding competitions than I care to remember.

Along the way, I have met Hulk Hogan, Jean Claude Van Damme, and this one female bodybuilder who confided in my 10-year-old self how difficult it was to date someone who was on steroids. I have been to Muscle Beach at Venice Beach more than 50 times. I know the caloric content and nutritional breakdown of a banana, 4 ounces of chicken breast, and a baked potato. I know the names of all the muscles and I know the weird adjectives judges use to describe “physiques.” It’s right at the top of my list of things it still feels weird to know. During this period, I also found time to attend The Masters of the Universe POWER TOUR! (basically He Man on Roller Skates) theatrical extravaganza. (It’s exactly what it sounds like. Click here to see photos of the program from this event.)

3. I can play the piano.

I even know a few songs by heart.

4. I always wear my helmet and I never ride alone.

A few weeks after graduating from college, I was hit by a truck on my bicycle at 4am on my way to work. Despite no helmet, my only injury was a fat lip (the police report mentioned a prominent red lipstick stain on the hood). Two weeks later, I was attacked on my bicycle by a migrant worker on his bicycle on a remote bike path near the beach—also, as it happens, at 4am (I managed to evade him using the old cartoon trick of slamming on the brakes and then speeding around him and finally hiding in the bushes of a trailer park–just like in the movies). Now I believe The Gift of Fear by Gavin DeBecker should be required reading for every man and woman. And I cringe whenever I see another hipster without a helmet.

5. I once saved my man-friend’s life.

6. He once saved my dog’s life.

I think they bonded over that.

7. I am secretly grateful when the people who think they’re supposed to remember my birthday forget it.

It makes me feel less guilty for forgetting theirs. I’m terrible at remembering birthdays.

8. Snow-skiing in Alta, Utah.

If I ever have a business retreat of my own, this is where it will be.

9. I once sold window coverings door to door in Orange County—just after returning from the Peace Corps.

I was actually pretty good at it, thanks to my obsession at the time with Zig Ziglar. Someone told my boss I was good at selling without appearing to be selling—he said I didn’t seem like a salesperson, but as a salesperson himself, he could feel my subtle tactics working on him. Selling door to door was easy after the Peace Corps. Copywriting was easy after selling door to door.

10. My brain overwrote Spanish with French. Sorry, Ms. Shew.

I studied Spanish in high school, and had to learn French living in Guinea as a Peace Corps volunteer. The French won out over the Spanish. I am barely conversational in Soussou. There are many sad stories related to my time in the Peace Corps. They’re too irredeemably sad to tell. You know how some stories give you this great feeling of warmth at the end because you can see the humanity and the sad, sad beauty of it all? These don’t have that quality. They’re just sad.

11. I have never broken a bone, gotten a cavity, or needed glasses.

I have, however, chipped my front tooth by throwing a large rock high up into the air and attempting to catch it.
It was supposed to be a friendship rock for the friendship altar at summer camp.

12. I am an only child.

A left-handed, introverted only child who is only comfortable speaking in public if one hand is attached to a puppet and costumes are involved. All of this means I am a blast at parties for 90 minutes. Then I am suddenly done and need to go home immediately.

13. I once lived out of my car and only ate baked potato, which I heated with the microwave on campus at the local community college.

This is how I know it’s possible to live on $10 a week. It’s also the reason I rarely eat baked potatoes.

14. I, too, used to be obsessed with origami.

My parents got a phone call after my desk was revealed to contain dozens of tiny swans in various forms, all constructed from old homework. I got into a lot of trouble as a child for doing what don’t sound like such bad things now. I used to draw skulls and crossbones on all my homework like a pirate signature; I drew a bikini on my Thanksgiving turkey handout in 3rd grade; I corrected my teacher for mis-pronouncing a word; and one time I forgot to ask if I could get up before sharpening my pencil. My level of rebel was ‘Anne-of-Green-Gables.’

15. I have written an unpublished, unedited novel about The Real Santa Claus.

That’s all anyone ever needs to know.

16. I used to be a cat person, but switched to dogs after college.

It’s really about the individual cat and the individual dog.

17. My favorite novels are Middlemarch and The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

18. My first business was a two-day mistletoe stand in front of Stater Brothers when I was 18 years old.

This is only my second business. But here are the abandoned back-up business ideas I had planned if Copylicious didn’t work out:

  • A food cart in The Mission
  • A home puppetry theatre & dining experience
  • Slobbercise, a one-on-one, dog-running service. The key business-building strategy was to be a viral marketing campaign featuring my Great Dane mix, Harley, wearing an Olivia Newton John-inspired aerobics ensemble.

19. I have hiked to the top of Yosemite’s Halfdome approximately 12 times–once by myself.

20. I spent a summer pumping gas and washing windshields at a gas station.

There is a proper technique and an improper technique to wash a windshield. I don’t like having people volunteer to wash my windshield when I’m pumping gas because they never use the proper technique.

21. My favorite theme park (yes, I have one) is Dollywood in Tennessee.

It’s just as graaaaand as it sounds. Everyone should go at least once.

22. I’m a highly-sensitive person who is inexplicably drawn to adventure.

That can’t be good for me.

So now you know.

I’m just sorry you didn’t learn all this sooner. Sarah Lacy, I salute you and extend my gratitude for inspiring this post. To continue in Sarah’s grand tradition, I’d like to open up the comments for interesting, fun facts about the readers of this blog. I assume if there’s something most people don’t know about you, there’s a good reason for that. So feel free to indulge anyway—we’ll chalk it up to egg nog later.

What to say to the committee—when there’s literally a committee

“Hi all. Here’s the new website copy. What do you think?”

Every time this phrase is uttered, somewhere a copywriter loses her wings.
It’s the moment The Committee has been waiting for. All those pristine sentences, so open and vulnerable, just waiting to be plucked of their unnecessarily bright feathers.

Actually, The Committee isn’t as feather-hungry as that.

What The Committee is really looking for? Reassurance.

Making decisions by consensus has worked out well for them so far. It makes sense they’d want to apply this proven system to the marketing process, too. But because they aren’t always sure how to give feedback, they want reassurance in the form of structure and limits. What they don’t want is to approve something and to then find out they were wrong, and should have examined it more closely.

I’m pleased to report I have wrestled with The Committee and have finally won out over it.

Sometimes The Committee is just one guy. But there’s also The Committee in the one guy’s head. And there’s The Committee inside your head, too. So, when there’s literally a Committee, you’re really dealing with a Committee talking to a Committee talking to a Committee of Committees. You see how crowded it gets?

This post details my findings on what to say to The Committee when there’s literally a committee.

Step 1: Identify the primary Decisionmaker.

If you’re putting together a proposal, identifying the decisionmaker is easy. You’re already talking. The project itself is much like the proposal. Someone has to take the lead on gathering feedback and incorporating their changes. The higher-up in the organization, the better. But not always. Some decisionmakers take a more collaborative approach—particularly at nonprofits and educational institutions. In that case, you might want to enlist the help of a wing-person. (see below)

Step 2: Use the proposal to detail reviewers’ involvement.

Additional reviewers mean additional revisions and support, which should be built into the process. A Committee’s existence and involvement should never take you by surprise.

Step 3: Identify potential Wing-person.

This is someone who works closely with the decisionmaker. Sometimes a manager, sometimes an assistant, sometimes a partner. They are in a position to help you—and you can help them help their team. Do unexpected favors for this person and generally treat them like your favorite aunt, the one who always brings cookies.

Step 4: Help The Decisionmaker educate and influence The Committee.

The Decisionmaker ultimately wants you to look good—because that makes them look good for hiring you. Give them an ounce of guidance and send them on their way with sample emails and checklists so they don’t have to think about it. (Please see my Delicate Flower Feedback Checklist for more information.) Checklists are always appreciated. I’ve never met a decisionmaker who didn’t love an email template with a checklist. You’ll want to include information on the project and its goals, as well as a way to position the request, such as: ‘Please limit your feedback to any factual errors or inconsistencies at this time.’

What to Say When The Committee Is Running Wild in the Streets

So, you’re on your 15th iteration and your draft has been plucked of all personality. Now what? Here are a few fun tips:

Thank them for their thoughtful feedback. Look for the truth in what they’re saying and make any changes that support the goals of the piece.

Push back where necessary. You can say something like, “With emails, it’s important they be somewhat informal. If they vary from that, almost always the response will decrease. Based on my experience with what works, I would recommend we stick with this version.”

If all of the above doesn’t abate the deluge of revision attempts, you can have the decisionmaker or wing-person send this email:
“I think we’re ready to wrap this up. Anyone have any last factual edits to this before we finalize? If not, I’ll take no response as your approval to move forward with this final version.”

I hope these are a nice starting point for your own work as you gather feedback from committees—so you can produce a better outcome through collaboration, without anyone plucking your wings.