It’s not just for horror, terror and doom. These are worth preventing.
It turns out that the hard work of innovation or the creation of revolution involves imagining what others consider unimaginable and speaking up with the unspeakable.
Sometimes we work to avoid the things that scare us.
We can’t imagine something better if we’re not able to speak of it.
The newcomer introduces themselves to the community.
The brand runs its first ad.
The product’s packaging is encountered by a new customer.
You rarely get a second chance to make a first impression.
For software companies, that first impression is the user interface, and then it’s the experience of actually engaging with the software. That’s a huge opportunity (and obligation, and risk) that software companies encounter–the product is the ad.
LLMs like Claude and ChatGPT have grown faster than any other products in the history of the world. They have done this despite awkward brand names, unsophisticated interfaces and plenty of glitches. Yet the experience is so remarkable that we can’t help talking about it–even if we’re not sure exactly what to say. As a result, like the eight men in a dark room with an elephant, our stories are all different.
Whether you’re a job seeker, a freelancer or the head of marketing for a company with lots of funding, there are questions to answer before you make your first flyer, your resume or your very expensive YouTube ad:
What do we intend to remind people of?
What genre are we playing in?
What problem do we solve?
What problem does our existence cause–for competitors, for users, for bystanders…
What’s our position in the marketplace? Is it one that we can stick with, and one our competitors can’t come near?
Could we tell this story, run this ad, stand behind this position for years?
Could our competitor run precisely the same ad, or are we saying something we can own?
Who exactly is it for–not just the brand, but this ad. Who are we trying to reach?
What’s the change we seek to make?
When people tell their friends about us, what do we want them to say?
What cultural touchstones are we putting to work to advance our story?
Where is the tension in our story, the part that makes it sticky?
[The ad doesn’t exist to entertain your fans. It’s here to make a change happen.]
Some great brands have been built with ads or stories built on these questions. Maxwell House, the Mac, Marlboro, Prell, Betty Crocker, Avis, Volkswagen, the Gap, Burger King… it’s not about having a slogan, it’s about having a resilient story and a firm foundation to stand on. And then telling that story in a way that sticks, that spreads and that resonates.
My take is that the AI companies, racing as fast as they can on the tech side, have more money than vision when it comes to telling a coherent, sticky and generative story. They’re starting to spend the money, but they’re not creating much of value.
You don’t have to be a giant business to benefit from a consistent and powerful position, supported with a story. But it’s a good place to start if you want to get there.
How did we meet? What were we doing when we shifted from acquainted to friends? Who else is in our circle? How do we make space for each other and how do we dance together toward our center?
You’ve shown me who you really are, and I trust you enough to share my dreams and fears.
I know the sound of your laugh before you even start laughing and you remember things about me that I sometimes forget about myself. There are inside jokes between us that no one else would understand.
I remember you standing up for me, and I hope I’ve done the same for you. Can you count on me the way I count on you?
I’d miss you if you were gone.
Brands are not our friends. And most of them are simply acquaintances. But the most successful marketers understand how deeply our emotional bond with friends runs, and try to echo some of those feelings. Manipulate the process and you’ll inevitably disappoint the very people you seek to serve.
With their relentless push to humanize, brands have blurred the lines of connection and culture, but they’ve also reminded us that the stories we tell ourselves about our most important people are priceless and irreplaceable.
Authenticity is impossible to measure, and so consistency carries us forward. What do we expect when we hear you knocking? What promises are you here to keep, and how often are they kept?
[Coming in October: Seven years ago, I worked with my friend, bestselling author Bernadette Jiwa to launch The Story Skills Workshop. Bernadette has consistently helped people around the world get clear about the story they tell and the change they seek to make–in all arenas. She’s running it again in October.]
If you’re taking the wrong medication, that’s not going to help.
It doesn’t matter how fast you’re going if you’re headed in the wrong direction.
The pre-work involves important choices:
Skip these steps and you might as well not bother to begin.
There’s a button in WordPress that initiates a new post. And another that publishes it.
That’s a clear and practical metaphor for what we do, all day, every day.
The ‘post’ of our action or inaction might seem trivial, but it’s a post nonetheless. Layer by layer, actions and interactions leave a trail behind.
When we post with intention, we create a pattern that begins to create a structure and a narrative we’re pleased with. “That doesn’t sound like me,” is a useful way to stay on track.
What are your planned posts for today?
In an oft-quoted speech, Winston Churchill said:
Never give in–never, never, never, never, in nothing great or small, large or petty, never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy.
The problem with this advice is that it means we spend an enormous amount of time in senseless battles with senseless folks who are also following this advice.
In a community, perhaps it makes more sense to only have battles about honour and good sense. In everything else, sure, give in. It’ll help you focus on what really matters.
Worth noting that there’s no ‘w’ in reckless. We imagine there might be, since a wreck is entirely possible.
There’s the recklessness of creative generosity. This happens when we show up with our best work, regardless of how it might feel if it doesn’t land with the desired audience.
The recklessness of financial abandon. No budgets, no backup plans. This can feel like commitment, but it’s often a trap.
The recklessness of connection. When we stop holding back and find someone (or something) that is worth our full focus, attention and commitment.
The recklessness of being in love.
The recklessness of radical honesty. When we choose to speak our deepest truths, knowing they might backfire, and yet it’s still worth it.
The recklessness of unlearning. When we deliberately dismantle our carefully constructed expertise and certainties to make space for new ways of seeing and being.
The recklessness of solitude. When we step away from the constant hum of connection and productivity, daring to sit with ourselves in complete silence.
And the recklessness of joy. When we allow ourselves to feel and express unbridled delight in a world that often expects measured restraint and cynical distance.
It’s easy to announce that we don’t have time for a new skill or a generous act.
But the truth is we probably could find the time. What we don’t have is energy or motivation.
Find that and you’ll probably find the time.
A frog has no trouble grabbing a fast-moving fly in midair.
But the same fly, sitting on a leaf, is safe, essentially invisible to the frog.
We’re a lot like frogs sometimes. We choose to pay attention to things when they’re changing, not when they feel normal.
If you want something to get noticed, move it.
And if you want to improve your situation, try looking for things that aren’t moving, but could be improved.
