Writing Boots

On communication, professional and otherwise.

The world is a happy place, too

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In my continuing effort to counter my own pat negativity, allow me to pass on the observation of a new acquantance, who excused his own workaholism by pointing out that a workplace offers "a relatively stable environment to go to every day."

We individualists and self-made islands may have a hard time admitting, even to ourselves, that we rely on work—and the various goofballs we deal with every day—as a social comfort and as a reassuring physical and mental routine.

But just because we don't like to admit it doesn't mean it's not true.

Leo and Shelly, Wolf and Friedman

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My mom always told my dad he needed to gain weight. "No, Leo says 180 is enough," my dad would say, about his doctor, Leo Wolf. My mother didn't like Dr. Wolf—thought he was old-fashioned and complacent—and referred to him as just, "Wolf." Wolf also thought it was okay that my dad smoked three cigarettes per day. And it probably was. But find a doctor to tell you that today.

Mom didn't go to Leo, she went to Shelly—whose full name was Sheldon, but who my dad called by his last name, "Friedman"—and she took my sister and me to him, too. Shelly was more liberal than Leo. He was more liberal than my mother, actually. Once, he suggested that, in order to cure her manic depression, she try cocaine. "I'm telling you, Carol, it's fantastic."

But Leo and Shelly were family advisors; they were the human embodiment of a vast and mysterious medical realm. They were people whose genius and foibles we knew. And they were doctors, too.

My parents sometimes followed their advice, sometimes ignored it, but always seeked it, because these men were friends, and why wouldn't you tell a friend your troubles? (As opposed to a stranger; once, a heavy-drinking pal of mine was asked by a doctor he'd just met, how much alcohol he consumed; he cracked under the persistent inquisition, bellowing: "More than everybody else!")

Sometimes doctors settled family arguments that didn't really have everything to do with medicine. For two years I begged my mom to let me try out for the junior high football team. I was too small, she said, and would get hurt. Finally, she made an appointment for the two of us to see Shelly Friedman, who she hoped would somehow break our loggerheads. "Oh Carol, let him play," Friedman said. "The worst that can happen is he'll break a leg."

Relieved, she looked at me, shook her head, and shrugged, OK. I looked back at her, pretending an I-told-you-so face, but meanwhile thinking, "Break a leg?"

I never tried out. Thanks to Shelly.

We'll live without family doctors, of course. But not as long, I'll bet. And not as well.

How a writer ought to prepare for a speech

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Yesterday we talked about why writers don't necessarily make good speakers. Nevertheless writers, more frequently than florists or fire fighters, are asked to speak in public. And the more successful the writer, generally, the more he or she is invited to speak—and thus, make an ass of him or herself.

We can't have that.

At the risk of offering something for free something useful (and hard-earned), here are a few tips specifically for writers who would like to stand before people and appear to be at least half as wise and a third as witty as their prose promises:

1. You are not Christopher Hitchens or Fran Lebowitz. Get it through your head.

2. Eight is enough. That's my rule of rehearsal. Eight times through is the right number, whether you'll be reading from a text and want to appear semi-sponteneous, or speaking extemporaneously and want to appear somewhat coherent. These eight rehearsals don't just take time; they take energy. During the first sessions all by yourself, your hands will sweat, and you will gasp for breath.

3. If you think you can't practice an improvised speech, you are incorrect. You simply improvise the rehearsal. Over and over again. Sometimes your second rehearsal goes better than the third. But generally, the thing keeps getting better—until it starts getting gradually worse, at which time you know you have rehearsed it enough. Now, it'll actually be much better when you have real eyeballs to look at instead of your microwave oven.

4. It's okay to read it from a script too. But the message should be this close to explosive, the delivery must be animated and the writing had better be good enough to justify your insistence on sticking to the script. Being read something dull by a dullard—that wasn't fun in any century.

5. Above all, you must believe you are the only person to be delivering this particular message. While most of the above advice is applies to anyone trying for success in public speaking, I believe writers in particular need to be connected, on an almost spiritual basis, with their message. When I have spoken on communication technology, strategy and management, I have sucked. Why? Because I knew that 500 or 1,000 other people could give that talk just as well or better. It's when I've been talking about the purpose of communication, about writing, about how people connect with other people—these are the times my eyes have welled up with tears as I've stood with one foot on my mother's shoulder and one foot on my dad's. Uh, yeah. More like that.

All this sounds like a tremendous, time-consuming pain in the ass, doesn't it? It is a tremendous pain. But no more a pain than writing a long feature story would be for a certified electrician. You are a writer! You are not a speaker! You must work hard to convince your audience otherwise!

Do it anyway. Spend the time. It's the difference between communicating a message that's important to you and memorable to an audience, and communicating another, equally important and memorable message: You are a bumbling, arrogant fool who neither knows him- or herself nor values the hundreds of human hours being wasted listening to your jumbled, empty words.