Sticky Communication

When I was a girl, I lived in the shadow of my younger, smarter brother Brian. Brain, as some of us called him,  was the top student not only in our school, but also the county and possibly the country.  He trounced me at checkers, rummy  and so much more.

But my feelings of inferiority all dissolved that day in grade three, when I first drew lines under some words and brackets around others. I understood the mechanics of language intuitively, as if I possessed mysterious knowledge passed on from the ancestors.

Like Brian in math, I could get perfect scores in English grammar, and later in French and German. I had found my place in the sun.

I was also better than my brother at talking. Painfully shy, he would hide in the car when we visited friends. But me, I loved to be the center of attention, chattering incessantly, showing off my ballet twirls.

You might think that having a brother called Brain would make me fiercely competitive. Instead, I stopped competing.

You see, I come from a family of slackers. My father Bob, a chartered accountant, was always home by 5:30 p.m.  His main life objective was to escape to the golf course or ski slope.  At his retirement dinner, everyone joked about how Bob spent more time talking to his stock broker or dashing off to the YMCA than working.

My mother Glady, a housewife, loved to lie on the orange couch, smoking cigarettes while watching As The World Turns or reading the latest John Updike novel. She could not understand why her two best friends went back to university when the kids entered high school. When Glady called somebody a “workaholic,” it was an insult.

No wonder Bob and Glady aspired to low-risk, suburban comfort. Glady’s father had been a grain buyer, back in the dirty 30s when the prairie drought meant no grain. They were so poor they used Eaton’s catalogue for toilet paper. No kidding.

The other grandfather had lost everything in a gold mine investment. Bob, the eldest, was sent thousands of mile away to live with a childless aunt and uncle.

With no pressure to excel, Brain grew up like Bill Gates without the drive.  To shelter me from disappointment and hurt, my parents advised me not to try too hard. That left lots of time for reading, writing, dancing, playng piano and of course talking and socializing.

My parents did expect that my brother and I would attend university.  Dutifully, we did. But I rebelled against my languages studies when I realized how tedious the labs were, long lonely hours answering boring questions and repeating phrases into an eight-track tape recorder. My new major, philosophy, gave me more time for fun.

But I got tired of sliding into hot pants in order to earn a living as a cocktail waitress. And I still loved language. So I took a graduate degree in journalism.

Sadly, journalism was too competitive, with all us baby boomers suddenly hitting the job market at the same time.

The relatively new field of corporate communication offered an easier road. Besides,  I loved being at the center of the action, advising executives and politicians on what to say, and helping employees, customers and other people make sense of their rapidly changing world. The office towers where I worked seemed to reach out to the sun.

I also enjoyed fixing my colleagues’ writing. Just as I had no recollection of the periodic table of elements, most of them simply did not remember those grammar rules. Worse still, they had been brainwashed by teachers, professors and bosses into believing reading and writing should be long, formal and never, ever social.

But well before Comment,  Like and Follow, I knew that writing to persuade readers to respond in a certain way was ultimately a social activity. Preparing speeches and scripts confirmed the power of writing like you talk.  Why didn’t they get it?

Eventually the office towers soared too high for my slacker conditioning and unconventional views. My biological  clock was clanging. So I turned freelance.

With the sun shining on my office in the home of me and the young Maddy and Ben and dog Cocoa, I happily pursued the same kind of work. Until I realized the sun was moving across the sky.

Equipped with computers, everyone had become a writer. Unfortunately, many seemed to waste precious time with their endless emails, reports and other yawning written communication. Others were difficult to understand, keyboarding in technical tongues instead of the plain English most Canadians grew up talking.

Soon the sun broadened its reach to bloggers and other social media people who wrote like they talked. They called it conversation. I had finally met my tribe!

When I tuned 50,  I realized I probably had only 50 years more on this planet. Plus Maddy and Ben needed me much less. I vowed to explore my potential, even if it took more effort and risk to follow my place in the sun.

No longer did I need to heed my parents’ advice about not trying too hard. I had survived  the world’s nastiest divorce and other dark days. I could risk more in order to see what I could do.

I knew the Synergy seekers needed to learn how to write like they talk. I knew the social media  people needed to avoid those flaws that made them look bad. So I wrote my book, first as posts on my blog and later as an ebook I sold on my site. 

I did not make enough money to feed and educate my kids. But this content built a stage. I gave presentations and taught some workshops based on my philosophy of combining the sociability of talking with the thinking of writing. I listened to what readers and other people had to say. I thought. I read. I rewrote the book. Amazon here I come.

So here I am approaching my hottest spot yet. Where are my sun glasses?

Brian, by the way, has at least four university degrees and teaches grade six. He’s a happy slacker, especially in summer. I still talk way more.

Bob had to give up skiing at age 84, but bikes to the nursing home every day to see Glady. She can no longer read but still loves television, even though her favorite soap opera was canned so sponsors could spend the money on the digital space.

So what is the point to my story?

Build your place in the sun. Keep rebuilding as the sun moves across the sky.

Overcome the obstacles that are keeping you in the shade, unless it’s siesta time or a rainy day.

If difficulty connecting to other people, writer’s block  or fear of looking bad are among your obstacles, read Write Like You Talk–Only Better.

Now let’s all live happier ever after.

1. Sue Horner says:

   August 17, 2011 at 1:23 am

   Barb, I can just see you doing those ballet twirls and chattering away! Nice storytelling. Not surprised!
   Sue
2. How a bicycle thief gave me three ways to improve my story « Sticky Communication says:

   August 19, 2011 at 5:19 pm

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