This is the first in an occasional series about people I love but haven’t necessarily met because they don’t know I exist because they are famous. People who inspire me to care a bit less about marketing. People like Thomas Keller and Amanda Palmer, who make a living doing nobler things, for which they are rightly worshiped. Each post includes a summary of why I love them, plus a brief website lesson you can act on today.

Thomas Keller is the famous chef responsible for the best fried chicken I’ve ever had.

His Michelin-starred restaurant, French Laundry, is so hard to get into you need to start auto-dialing 10 minutes before 5:30pm, precisely 2 months in advance, to have a chance. I’ve never managed to pull it off.

His newest restaurant, Ad Hoc, is more accessible. I’ve had drinks there. It’s also the title of his new cookbook, filled with family-style recipes for the sorts of dishes I grew up with—fried chicken, chicken soup, brownies, chocolate chip cookies. (Okay, dishes I would have grown up with if I could have eaten whatever I wanted, without interference from iceberg salad and meatloaf.)

Thanks to the cookbook, my first attempt at making fried chicken turned out to produce the best I’ve ever had. Crispy and juicy and tender and mind-blowing.

After devouring his buttermilk fried chicken, I became quite interested in Thomas Keller the business person. If the man can make fried chicken taste this good, what could he do for my business?

In the book, Thomas Keller explains that Ad Hoc wasn’t supposed to be called Ad Hoc. That was just a placeholder name. An ad hoc name, if you will. He didn’t have the resources to immediately begin developing the concept he wanted, so he decided to make use of the space he’d already bought by serving the kinds of ad-hoc, family-style meals the restaurant staff usually ate. Then it dawned on him. He could develop that as a concept.

Ad Hoc was born.

They only serve one meal each evening, but it’s a freaking amazing meal, and it’s served in big, family-style portions.

You don’t even have to look at the menu. Your only choice is to go there, and trust they’ll do you right.

Maybe consultants could take a page from Thomas Keller’s cookbook.

For example, what would Thomas Keller do about your Services page?

My old website used to have a page called Services. You know, so people could see what I did. Websites, case studies, bios, lead-generation emails, white papers.

Can you imagine if Thomas Keller had a restaurant called “All the Types of Food We Can Make If You Want?”

It dawned on me that people don’t really come to me for websites, case studies, bios, lead-generation emails, and white papers. Not the right people, anyway.

The right people come to me for because they want to transform their business. It’s my job to help them figure out what it takes to get there. And to keep them from ordering a bunch of stuff they don’t need.

Yet, so many consultants present these gigantic services pages with every combination of packages and services someone could possibly want. Alternatively, they specialize in one single thing, despite the fact most people need much more.

The alternative to “All the Types of Food We Can Make If You Want” doesn’t have to be “Thomas Keller’s Bacon-Wrapped Hot Dogs.”
Nothing wrong with bacon-wrapped hot dogs. But an entire restaurant dedicated to bacon-wrapped hot dogs would get boring for a chef like Thomas Keller. And you wouldn’t want to eat there all the time.

So, what if you gave yourself permission to write about just one package? The package of helping people figure out what sort of package they need? You tell them, “I don’t know what you need yet—because our work together is customized.” And then you proceed to ask them all of the smart questions you’ve developed in advance. That discovery process becomes the first package.

My Wilderness Concierge is a bit like that. It’s the only thing on the menu for people who have never worked with me before. And I don’t know exactly what we’re going to make next until we start talking. Maybe we’ll make fried chicken. Maybe we’ll make the best chocolate brownies and homemade ice cream you’ve ever had. Maybe we’ll make it all gradually, one month at a time.

I wonder what this kind of package might look like for your business—and whether anyone can get me a reservation at French Laundry.

What you can do now: Buy the Ad Hoc cookbook (not an affiliate link) and make the fried chicken. Then think about whether your Services could use a profitable make-under.

NOTE: This is the second of a two-part series on how to get awkward-free testimonials. If you haven’t seen the first part, then the following video will make absolutely no sense. It’s also possible this video won’t make sense anyway. If you like that sensation, do not click here to experience Part 1.

And we’re back. It turns out we didn’t need a follow-up interview after all. My assistant got Alan talking before last week’s scheduled interview.

When he is feeling relaxed, Aaaaaagw tends to ask more open-ended questions—as opposed to rapid-fire, yes-or-no demands.

This impromptu conversation is a slight improvement over last week’s.

Ridiculously tiny. With a general sense this could have been worse.

Can a good testimonial be extracted from such an awkward interview?

Yes, the interview was awkward. And, yes, my assistant’s interviewing methods are questionable. He has always valued eating spaghetti and appearing on film over everything else. What can I say? He used to be a special assistant to the Muppets.

And, although Aaaaaagw does ask the same question twice, that’s actually not a bad approach.

Politicians are the only people who answer the same questions in the same way every time. Clients tend to ramble, introducing new ideas with each answer. Those ideas can be combined and edited down into a master testimonial.

I managed to extract a pretty good one, under the circumstances:

“Kelly helped me write a persuasive sales page that didn’t sound cheesy. I started to get clients right away—as soon as my sales page went up. In fact, I got two clients even before my sales page went up because Kelly helped me structure my business and figure out how much I should charge. She also helped me create systems for interfacing with potential clients, which is not something I’m naturally good at doing.

“Throughout this process, I always got the sense Kelly was really listening to me. She didn’t come in assuming she already knew everything. The results were great. My sales page sounded like me, and it communicated all the best parts of what I was offering.”

This completes the awkward testimonial series.

Would you like to see Aaaaaaagw again? Alan is done with him. Also, I will be taking care of all interviews from now on. So, I’d need to find some other way for Aaaaagw to contribute.

But most people don’t mind talking.

Fact: Interviewing is both a skill and an art.

But few people know how to really do it well. It’s too easy to freeze up and revert to yes-or-no questions.

The best way to demonstrate how to get a testimonial is to simply show you.

This is not only my first video post, but it’s also the first footage I’ve ever shot. Ever. Knowing this will explain so much when you see it.

Against my better judgment, I’m posting it anyway. My assistant kept insisting it was in his contract.

This is the first of a two-part series. After you’ve watched this disaster, I think you’ll see why I need the second part.

Learn how I can help you avoid getting an awkward testimonial.

In case she’s reading this–I want her to know I know she meant well.

I’m only sharing my story in hopes other creative types will see they’re not alone.

It started innocently enough when she approached me with a new project.

“I’m booked right now, but I’ve got some time in four weeks.”

She didn’t like this response. “JUST DRINK MORE COFFEE YOU’RE FINE.”

“Actually, I’ve been drinking a lot of coffee. And I don’t want to work on weekends again.”

“That’s fine, but don’t be surprised if you’re replaced by someone else! I’m just saying.”

I thought she had a point there. So we began working together. And thus began her campaign to improve my productivity in every way she knew how.

Like the thing with my workouts. I still don’t know how she did this (secret heatmapping technology?), but whenever I tried to get in a workout before 6pm, she’d stop me for some urgent email she wanted me to see. “No, really, I think there’s something truly important in there.” These emails never actually existed.

She also took issue with me writing blog posts more than once a month. “Your clients should really take precedence over your own stuff. Unless you were planning to get a side job somewhere else. I don’t know–was that the plan? I don’t mean to butt in.”

If I tried to eat breakfast away from the computer, she knew somehow. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING AT THE DINING ROOM TABLE? What if someone was trying to email you? Get over there! Go on, now!” (She didn’t like this post I wrote about Merlin Mann and Bob Bly eating waffles together.)

Speaking of food. One time, on Thanksgiving, she told me I had to work on this white paper. On Thanksgiving Day! But it did seem important. After I finished, she seemed to forget all about it. Said it was great I’d worked so hard, but there was still more work to be done. “Moving on!” She used those exact words.

After I got sick with the flu for the second time in 6 months, I finally caught on. I had a choice about all this.

I didn’t completely stop working with her. I don’t think either of us was quite ready for that.

Instead, I hired her. I positioned it as a lateral move.

Now she’s the Associate Vice President of Spelling Errors. I also put her in charge of A/R. She gets to mail the checks in to my bank, and to look up the special four-digit codes at the ends of zip codes. Knowing every envelope has the full, postal-service-approved zip code gives her great satisfaction.

Just last week, we discovered another fascination. Paperclips. She loves paperclips! I bought her a box of colored paper clips, and she spent the day just clipping random documents together. I take her with me to the office supply store now. This is like a vacation for her.

She’s gotten real quiet lately. I think she’s starting to accept my inefficiently roundabout way of doing things. She might even be starting to enjoy working for me even more than she enjoyed being my client.

Recently, I added a business adviser to my team, just to get another perspective during these meetings between myself and my client. To my surprise, I’m actually a pretty good business adviser to myself.

My business adviser and my former-client-now-Associate-VP-of-Spelling-Errors still don’t agree on everything. But they have finally come to an agreement on one thing. A 15-minute walk might not be the end of the world.

Haven’t we all said this? It’s one of those skills people seem to learn by not doing.

A friend of mine recently had a close encounter with her gut. She and her gut had previously related on a strictly need-to-know basis: Don’t ask, don’t tell. If I’m about to run into a wall? Holler. Otherwise, I’ve got this, thanks.

Despite her gut’s rumblings, she decided to attend a weekend workshop for entrepreneurs. When my own gut saw the sales page, it covered my eyes with its gutty hands. No persuasion! Do not want! I should have warned her, but I didn’t want to presume. Turns out both our guts were right. She stuck it out, but she learned absolutely nothing new. And she was singled out for not being woo-woo enough.

My own close encounter with my gut happened ten years ago on a remote bike path by the beach. Suddenly, even though I couldn’t see anyone, I knew I wasn’t alone. Every cell in my body screamed GET OUT OF HERE! AND DON’T STOP PEDALING UNTIL YOU’RE SAFE! But my know-it-all brain urged, KEEP GOING, YOU’RE JUST PARANOID. So I continued biking down the path, away from the safety of the road. My gut was right. I’d been followed, and ended up having to out-pedal a bad guy. Escape didn’t come easy, but let’s just say I’ll always be grateful for hybrid bicycle tires.

Ever since then, my gut and I have been close. We conversate regularly. I tend to give my gut the benefit of the doubt—rather than giving it to someone who says they once manifested a phone call from Sean Connery, for instance. (True story.) Even if I don’t always do what my gut wants, I try to remember to listen. ‘What do you mean by that, Gut? Tell me more!’ Yes, I treat my gut very much like one of my clients.

This is why I will never put persuasion first–
whether for myself or for my clients.

When persuasion comes first, we stop trusting our own guts about what to write. We stop trusting our readers’ guts about what is best for them to do. And we encourage our readers not to trust their own guts, either. We perpetuate a cycle of violence against guts.

Sales pages that put persuasion first tend to look like this:

• “You’ll develop a clear roadmap and a customized blueprint.”
• “Now you can create the lifestyle you desire.”
• “Are you struggling to make enough money every month?”
• “What got you here, won’t get you there.”

Stop the violence against guts! Stop it right now!

We can all start by throwing away our swipe files. I’m hereby manifesting a blueprint of my desire to never see the words “manifest” and “blueprint” in sales page copy. Unless manifest is used a metaphor, like a manifest for your shipping container. I like that! And unless it’s a literal blueprint.

Swiping and repurposing copy might feel like a shortcut to some. But it’s a chute, not a ladder. Customized roadmaps start popping up everywhere. Readers begin to click away because they’ve seen it all before. This won’t bring “the lifestyle we desire.” There are plenty of other metaphors in the sea.

Swiping “proven copy” also reflects a mindset that values only those ideas that can bring the most customers, regardless of whether they’re the right customers. And only valuing people who will become customers, or who could refer them. Anyone else isn’t worth talking to. Any other idea isn’t worth mentioning. The only words worth writing are profitable words. All other words are snubbed.

Make no mistake, I am all for direct response.

If direct response wanted to meet for a beer, I would totally be there. Without responses, we don’t have profits. And without profits, we can’t make delicious fried chicken from Thomas Keller’s Ad Hoc Cookbook.

But do we really need to limit ourselves to what five other sales pages have already done?

What if, instead of trying to figure out which words were most scientifically persuasive, we focused first on making truly great stuff? That would be a start.

One direct response copywriter I really like is Ben Settle.
A year ago, I bought his Copywriting Grab Bag book (not an affiliate link), and it was just as useful as it promised to be. Also, I just like him. We share a loathing for swipe file addiction. He recently wrote in his newsletter that by relying on swipe files, people are making marketing about copy. And it’s not about the copy! It’s about the ideas behind the copy.

Yes, Ben Settle, yes!

I’ve found the best ideas come not from a swipe file, but from stepping away from the computer and scribbling and mindmapping my guts out onto a gigantic notebook. My gut loves gigantic notebooks. I think a lot of “successful entrepreneurs” get so focused on pushing towards a revenue goal that they don’t give their programs the space they really need to become incredible. Instead, they hope the word “incredible” will suffice. And then they wonder why they’re not getting enough sign-ups.

The thing with testing is it’s not forever.

We can’t always write by what tests well. Because what we think will test well today won’t test well tomorrow. People can only be excited by the term “customized roadmap” so many times.

Pure originality doesn’t exist–that’s true, too. The air we breathe now is the same air dinosaurs breathed millions of years ago (and now we even know what color they were!) Ideas spread so fast we forget where they came from. It’s the nature of the universe. But the world is vast. And no one will ever be able to tell your story the way you can. We could all write sales pages that rigorously followed the elements of persuasion without a single sales page sounding like anyone else’s. Snowflake sales pages!

Forget about the right words. Let’s craft the right offer. And the right packages for your services. And the right messages. And let’s make sure that program is fully baked, and that it’s what your people want. Then we can start on the words. They can even be persuasive.

Here’s a book recommendation even your gut will love:

It’s called Yes! 50 Scientifically Proven Ways to Be Persuasive. And it is forehead-slappingly good. After I bought it, I realized why those signs in fast-food restaurants to “only take one napkin” never work. I also discovered that many of the people I respect had already read this book, and simply hadn’t told anyone. Tricky! Well, now you can join our secret club.

Go ahead and persuade—but remember to be kind to guts. Because I love them.

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.

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.

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.

I’m fortunate this is a hypothetical condition. I do have a face. It performs face-like functions. It crinkles up and then relaxes. It emotes things. People can look at my face and ask “What’s so funny?” and “What’s wrong?” and “What are you looking at?” We make a good team.

This came up when I was writing a client’s About page and realized I hadn’t actually seen her face.

As I was reflecting on her and her qualities, it became clear that I really needed to see her face.
And then it occurred to me that perhaps my clients would like to see mine.

It’s still a bit unnerving to be called upon to express the essence of someone without having experienced them speaking to you face to face.
It’s a bit like writing for Harvey, the six-foot, three-and-one-half-inch tall bunny rabbit.

You’d think you wouldn’t actually need to see someone to write for their business.

So many qualities can be expressed in the voice. But seeing someone’s face adds something to my understanding of them and their business in this indescribably useful way.

Have you ever noticed how courtroom judges rarely look up to watch lawyers speak?

I love the way they can be fully connected with the speaker, deep in concentration, while appearing to be so completely disengaged, without anyone chiding them for rudeness. Judges are my heroes.

But creative work requires quite the opposite.

Translating the contents of people’s brains takes considering everything.
It’s not enough to simply read what you write, to listen to your voice, to think about your ideas.
I need to see your face! And you need to see my face!

Naturally, my own face is a bit of a show-off.

It’s used to the spotlight. Wherever I go, my face is right there with me. It can’t not be seen.

But when it comes to my business, my face isn’t content with this behind-the-scenes arrangement.
It wants more. It doesn’t understand why it can’t be more involved in the day-to-day operations of Copylicious.

There are things it would like to express to my clients.
It loves the attention—even though I don’t.
And despite its tendency to show off sometimes, I want to make my face happy.

A Facial Exchange Program?

Maybe it’s time to implement some sort of Facial Exchange Program with my clients whereby, via videoconference, we relate in a wholly new (to us) way.

Even though we speak by phone and email each other all the live-long day, what I really want to do is to see them.
Face to face. Without actually leaving home.

Because if we can’t see each other’s faces, it’s a bit like not having faces at all. And that would feel awkward.

And maybe it’s time to update my bio with a recent photo of myself—or two. (Photography is possibly my second-greatest phobia after public speaking, and 99 percent of the photos I take are of my dog.)

Or, I could just keep on not having a face.

I still come across websites that don’t use any photos at all, or that include tiny photos displaying only half a face.

If I’m not blown away by everything else about them, I’d feel weird working together. Like the Wizard of Oz. No one wants to be that guy behind the curtain.

Examples of people who use their faces really well.

I love the way these people use their faces in business:

• Gwen Bell is constantly uploading pictures of herself on her blog. But this Pageants & Proms set has to be my favorite. If I met her tomorrow, I’d feel as if we’d already met before–at a 1990s prom, perhaps? More people should do this! It doesn’t hurt that she’s adorable.
• Pam Slim uploads videos of herself from time to time. Like this one. I love her. Seeing her speak makes me feel like I want to work with her immediately.

I have a feeling my face is going to be stepping out a bit more. We’ll start with videoconference and see what happens.

My friend Barry Kendall, Executive Director of the Commonweal Institute, says he often uses this phrase when pitching high-level donors. He positions it as a contrast–something easy to find in politics–by using the phrase, “Well, they just don’t get it. But you get it.”

Even though the prospect does get it—or they wouldn’t be talking in the first place—the phrase also appeals to the kind of person they want to be—and likely will be—with just a bit of effort. He’s helping them get it by telling them they get it.

Why do I love this so much? Because it makes the prospect feel special.

And when they feel special, they want to prove they really are special by taking action.

In taking action, they demonstrate their get-it-ness. Further your cause. And further what they really want. All at the same time.

By the way, this wouldn’t work if wasn’t sincere and true.

Manipulation rings false and untrue because it is false and untrue. Persuasion always tells the truth—but just does it in a compelling way.

I asked Barry how he came to discover this phrase, how he knew it was working, and how he’d answer the objection of ‘this feels manipulative.’

THE INTERVIEW

How did you discover this phrase?

We were meeting internally about fundraising and someone was saying, “It’s hard because so many people don’t get it. Some people get it, but a lot of people don’t get it.”
I latched on to that, because in general, you want to make your prospect feel special in some way. They like if you can offer something that’s exclusive. And what’s exclusive about this phrase is the intellectual piece. We can’t give people access to big-time celebrities or fancy parties. We’re not at that level yet. But what we can do is give them a sense of exclusivity based on their intellect. And that was the impetus for starting to use that phrase in our pitch.

How do you know when it’s working?

You really can tell from the look on their face whether or not it’s resonating. The reaction is either they smile and nod, as if to say, “Yes, I do get it, and I also recognize others don’t get it.”
That usually opens up a conversation where they bond with you over their frustration about how others don’t get it, and that’s a good thing, too.

Or, they give you a look that doesn’t quite give you that opening, and you’re not sure if they think they get it.

That usually leads me to try to ask them a question or two to get them talking about what they really think, and what they really do or don’t get about movement building and about politics.

So if I get the look that says, “Um, sure, if you think I get it, then maybe I do,” then I know I need to hit the brakes a bit and tease out more conversation, so when they say something that indicates a shared perspective, I can come back and say, “See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about when I say ‘You get it.’ Someone who doesn’t get it wouldn’t say that.”  You’ve created the opportunity for them to feel affirmed and to say, “I do get it.”

What do you say to people who are afraid this will make them feel manipulative?

If you’re being relatively up front, it strikes me as more of a condition of persuasion. The ends are right out there in the open. I’m not pulling any punches about why I’m talking to you; I’m not hiding my motives in any way. Usually if I feel I’m getting resistance, someone just doesn’t want to be pitched.

If someone feels they’re getting pitched and is resistant to that, it’s usually because they’re afraid they’re being looked at as a bank account and not as an active partner.
So often what I will do if I feel like I’m getting resistance is to get them talking more. Oftentimes people are most comfortable just talking and having a conversation.

And typically, at some point I’ll try to get them talking about action steps. Because when you shift from talking about problems to talking about actions, you engage them in the problem-solving process.

Sometimes you can move from action steps to, “That’s a great idea! We are working on something similar. I think we could really work together on this and get some things done.”

A Recipe for Getting It

Any kind of contrast plus affirmation is powerful. It doesn’t have to be “you get it.” It can be anything.
Here’s a simple formula to make it easy to remember:

CONTRAST + AFFIRMATION

We all love to hate formulas, but they’re extraordinarily useful sometimes!
I think you get the idea.