Connecting the dots...

1814. The United States is more than two years into a war we can’t afford. And can’t afford to lose. Albert Gallatin has left his post as Secretary of the Treasury to help John Quincy Adams and Henry Clay and a few other diplomats negotiate a peace treaty with the British. Everyone knows that peace is inevitable and will happen soon. Still, each side stalls and reengages. Their moves depend on who won the latest skirmish across the Atlantic and how the European powers seem to be realigning, now that they’ve driven Napoleon into exile. At least for now. 

While waiting in Ghent, Gallatin, Adams and Clay write letters to U.S. diplomats throughout Europe and to their colleagues back in Washington City. In an exercise we’d now call “show me your thinking,” they assess the many situations in play and speculate on the impact.

Like all good leaders, Gallatin, Adams and Clay are good politicians. Each is skilled at understanding motives and calculating risk. They weigh the pros and cons of borrowing more money from European banks. They contemplate the outcome if, as expected, Congress decides to reestablish a federal bank. They consider the ways in which the Europeans might redraw the map of Europe. They speculate on the future of France, wondering if anyone will step in to lead and wondering how the situation will change with France and Britain no longer at war. 

The men in Ghent also write about the risk of losing the support of the People. Americans are divided about the growing debt - what it means to the country and what we should do about it. They aren’t sure we can beat the British. And as the negotiators know; perception is reality. Adams complains that Britain “owns the presses throughout Europe,” which, of course, impacts what America can demand at the negotiating table and what Americans will support.

I know these things because I am reading the letters of Gallatin, Adams and Clay – real letters written in their own hands. I am currently helping out in the family business, Cowan’s Auctions. While my actual job is to launch a few strategic initiatives, I also get to do a bit of the fun work that Cowan’s does every day.

These letters tell me a lot about the business of communication. The sons of the Founding Fathers took great care to express their thoughts, if not always succinctly (apologies to always-succinct Adams). They were serious about being understood and serious about understanding what others had to say.

Why such care? I think it’s because they understood the connection between communication and leadership: To lead, you have to bring people along. You have to show your thinking – how it flows from what you see around you. Today, much of the effort we put into communication is about the WHAT and HOW. These 200 year-old letters remind me that, without the WHY the rest doesn’t matter. 

I went to hear a classical pianist last week – my first live classical music in many, many years. 

The concert reminded me that music, like words, can create meaning that goes far beyond what the writer intended.

I grew up in a home where classical music played every day, but my parents also encouraged me to find my own musical passions, which didn’t include much classical. 

Still, when I hear classical today, I can identify the melody and composer at least half the time. 

I was evidently paying attention back then, but there is more to it. My recall of the music has much to do with the images I formed of the composers: snippets of who they were as people and the times in which they lived; together with scraps of information from the single theory class I took as a teen.

So I wasn't surprised that I could appreciate the differences between Beethoven and Liszt and Mendelssohn. When the pianist began his final piece, Chopin’s Sonata No. 2 in B flat minor, Op. 35, I followed the first and second movements with the same familiarity I’d felt all evening. 

But when he got to the third movement I was dumbstruck. He was no longer playing Chopin. He’d switched to The Doom Song – the tune they played when Bugs Bunny, Sylvester or another of the Looney Tunes characters was in BIG trouble!

It was probably just a second before I realized that the pianist had not abandoned Chopin; that he was indeed playing the famous Funeral March. But for that brief time, I’d forgotten that the melody was of classical origin.

Did I forget? While I was hearing The Doom Song, my image of the composer was crystal clear: a guy on the back lot of the Warner Brothers Studio, hunched over the piano with a cigarette dangling from his lips and a single bulb above his head. The producer had told him to write something to use when the end was (almost) certain. My composer worked hard to get it right.

The Funeral March says, “the end is here” as clear as any sentence ever written. But it also reminds us that, no matter how clear the message we can’t control what our listeners hear.

My momentary lapse was of zero consequence. Are there consequences if your audience brings a fundamental misconception to your message? What are you doing to make sure they get it right?

Speed to Market requires an idea that’s been vetted and an organization that is set up to deliver.

The best companies employ a full regimen of tools and processes to make it happen – best practices for generating ideas, assessing competition, estimating sales, testing messages and managing the work, just to name a few.

But many companies fail to take advantage of the biggest speed enabler in the room: the wisdom of those who’ve tried it, or something like it, before.

Some propositions are truly new to everyone involved – but that's usually not the case. More often, people bring knowledge that simply doesn’t get tapped. As a communications strategist and anthropologist, it's my observation that organizations that intentionally leverage institutional knowledge bring propositions to market faster and with greater success.

While it’s possible to incorporate key learnings during the life cycle of the initial project, the gathering process is often treated as one more task. Better to create a case study at the point in time when those who need to know are focused on the opportunity at hand.

It’s easier than ever to track down former colleagues. And no matter why they left, people like to tell their stories. They want to be asked.

The deliverable is typically a framework of key issues, backed with a narrative of what happened. It can also include a checklist of questions to ask, behaviors to avoid and actions to follow in the future.

By including voices that represent a range of experiences and perspectives, the picture that emerges is textured and whole. When an outsider gathers the information, people trust that it is credible. When the issues are boiled down to the essentials, the findings are actionable.

Sometimes, the most important question is the one you don't ask.

Last winter, my veterinarian called to say that my dog had an elevated liver enzyme. He recommended an expensive and invasive round of tests to confirm his suspicion: a potentially fatal condition that is treatable by a change in diet. 

I’d never doubted a physician in my life, but something didn’t feel right. 

We agreed that I would do some research on my own. I consulted several out-of-town vets. After hearing their opinions (all different), my vet suggested I take Scout to a local vet internist.

The first thing the internist said: “Before I look at her chart, just talk. Tell me about your dog.”

Then he told me that I’d given him a clue, information he'd never get by asking questions.

A few non-invasive and inexpensive tests later, he offered a different diagnosis – one with an excellent prognosis. Scout is now on a vegetarian diet that includes prescription dog food and ordinary people food. Enzyme counts are, so far, normal. She is a happy dog.

My odyssey into dog healthcare was a window into my work. I also ask people to “just talk.” And I never use a list of questions. 

Like the vet said, “A list presupposes an answer, or at least a direction you think leads to an answer. You can miss the clues.”

I talk with people who will receive the message I'm designing to understand the context in which the message will land. The clues: Other issues that are competing for their attention. Aspects of the message that will most impact their world. Elephants in the room – issues my clients must address if any action is to follow.

The parallels only go so far, but the vet and I both let people “just talk” to get clues that help us diagnose and treat for the best results.

My clients appreciate my approach, but some ask to see my list of questions.

Next time this happens, I’m going to tell them about Scout.

Want to know the clue to Scout’s treatment? shelley@shelleycowan.com

Gen Yers only read the subject line of an email. That is, if they read an email at all.

I heard this from Jason Dorsey the Gen Y Guy®. Jason
is not only the guru of all things Gen Y; he is also a brilliant and delightful entertainer. His focus was not on research methodology, so maybe his subject-line-only declaration was part hyperbole.

But I want to know: Is this true? Are employers aware? What are they doing about it?

As an anthropologist and parent of two Gen Yers, I know that generational perspectives – like all cultural perspectives – shape the way we communicate. As a communicator, I know that uncovering listeners’ perspectives is a critical step in designing messages that meet them where they are. 

Last Friday, Jason spoke at the Communication Leadership Exchange annual conference, and he certainly gave me a new perspective on how to design better communication for better results.

He opened by asking us (almost all Baby Boomers) to think of the jobs we got paid to do before we went away to college. From babysitting to pumping gas to cutting lawns to waitressing, we all had plenty of work experiences as kids.

Then he told us that most Gen Yers (now in their 20s to mid 30s) enter the workforce never having held those kinds of jobs. From following through to showing up on time, many simply don't know that there are fundamental rules they are expected to obey!

He also reminded us that Gen Yers are the kids who got trophies for everything – including a last place finish. They begin their careers never having connected the dots between effort, ability, results and rewards.  

These are just two of many insights Jason shared. (Check out The Center for Generational Kinetics for more.) Still, they underscore the need for better communication at work.

Here’s my take: Don’t assume people know what you think they should know. Find out. If people aren’t doing what is required, show them and be explicit. Role modeling isn’t enough. Explain why – that’s how we connect the dots. Give lots of feedback. Make it part of an ongoing conversation.

As for reading only the subject line of an email… maybe that’s not so bad. According to the Information Overload Research Group, the rest of the workforce isn’t reading beyond the first paragraph. A clear subject line just might be the start of mindful communication!

When we sat down, two men at the next barstools over were talking about Thomas Jefferson, John Adams and the Three-Fifths Compromise that made it possible for the U.S. Constitution to become ratified. I know this because I was right next to them and they were very loud.

I don’t go to bars often, but I’m guessing that the Three-Fifths Compromise isn’t your typical Friday-night-watching-the-Reds-at-the-bar conversation.

The 1787 Compromise said that three out of every five slaves in slave-holding states would be counted as part of that state’s official population, which, in turn, would determine that state’s number of Congressional representatives.

But the Compromise, and what it implied about personhood was and is complicated. The idea had been floated a few years earlier, in 1783, when the issue of whether or not to count a slave as a person would have determined a state’s tax liability. During that argument, the North or South were opposite sides of the ‘count or not’ question.

The men at the bar were deeply engaged; each repeatedly asking the other to clarify a particular point. I eventually tuned out so that I could tune into my husband, an actual History Detective, who wasn't listening to them at all. But as a communicator, I couldn’t help but admire the effort they put into the conversation, and how rewarding it was when one said, “Wait! We’re saying the same thing!”

After a while they introduced themselves to one another, shook hand and said goodbye.

Two strangers listened, clarified their words and made sure they understood one another. Great Communication! I’ll toast to that!

Mindfulness is being aware. It’s a concept foundational to Buddhism. And after several millennia of living in the world of philosophy and religion, mindfulness now extends to the realm of psychology, where it underlies a range of therapeutic approaches.

I continue to think about the potential of mindful communication. Mindful email, for example, would – instead of reflecting the process of formulating an idea – reflect the critical thinking and insight behind an idea that was developed before it was shared.

If you are one who began stringing nouns and verbs together in the days of pen and paper, you might agree that writing used to require greater thought. Even a touch of mindfulness meant fewer cross outs and crumpled pieces of paper. The typewriter opened the door to spontaneity, but White Out took time. It still paid to think first.

Back to email and electronic communication in general: On the face of it, the ability to quickly get an idea down, read it and then improve it was a huge leap forward. At least it was for me.

The issue is what we do with the words and ideas we compose electronically. It's about how quickly we hit “send.”

Without mindfulness, words and ideas can become commodities. Not only do many lack value, they can serve as agents of misunderstanding and markers of ignorance. The easier it is to write and send, the greater the chance of damage. And whether words have merit or not, instant communication can render them quickly forgotten. As Cincinnati Enquirer sports writer Paul Daugherty says in today’s column, “In an age of Instant and Instantly Ancient, we don’t know much. Knowing requires depth. Depth takes time.”

I’m interested in enhancing mindful communication in the workplace, and want to test a few approaches. If you’d like your business or organization to participate, speak up. Hit send.

The 2012 Major League Baseball season officially begins today, with the first of a two-game series between the Seattle Mariners and Oakland Athletics at the Tokyo Dome in Japan. For the rest of the teams, it is still Spring Training.

It’s easy to think of Spring Training as ‘getting ready,’ as if ‘ready’ is over when Spring Training ends. Of course it doesn’t work that way. Managers use time between mid-February and early April to nail down rosters spots, assess players’ skills and see who works well together. But nothing stays locked. The surprises start on Opening Day. That’s when the improvising begins.

Without pushing the analogy too far, there is a parallel between Spring Training and communication planning. During the 'getting ready' phase we clarify the message, tweak the language and settle on the right balance of context and information. But there are always surprises: One issue raises questions we didn’t anticipate. Another causes unexpected concern.

That’s why communication planning needs to be dynamic. As important as it is to design the right message up front, it’s just as critical to stay in touch with how that message is being heard – to know what's working and what needs to be improved. 

Last week I realized that I’ve kept electronic records of every aspect of my business for over a decade. I wondered why I was keeping paper versions of the same, so I spent an afternoon sorting through my two-drawer hanging file cabinet. I filled six boxes with paper and drove to the shredding company.

Now I’m wondering why my electronic folders are so stuffed, and if it’s worth the time to do virtual shredding. The culprit is the successive versions that accumulate over the course of a project – the chronological record that runs from first draft to final.

I pay attention to versions because it’s my job to strike the right balance between clarity and context – the information listeners need to know and the understanding they should take away. The trail of language shows what's working and why. And the language from one project often informs the next.

But honestly, I’ve never had to re-read Draft 3 when the final version was Draft 6.

So why not delete?

Maybe because my folders are well organized, my hard drive is huge and I’ve got better things to do with my time.

Then again, useless words bother me as much as useless hanging files.

What do you think? What are you hanging on to? Are you ready for the shredder?

[No deep communication insights in this link, but shredders remind me of confetti, and I’m a longtime fan of Robert Earl Keen. Enjoy!] 

I am still unwinding my brain from the Information Overload Research Group (IORG) ‘un-conference’ in San Francisco last week. 

IORG is a 5-year old coalition of academics, business owners and consultants – all volunteer (http://iorgforum.org/). I’d learned of it only a few weeks earlier. The topic intrigued me. The timing and location couldn’t have been better. I signed up.

About two-dozen of us gathered on Saturday morning. My guess is that half were founding members and half, like me, had just learned of IORG’s existence.

While no one defined information overload (IO), topics centered on email and other workplace distractions. Attendees included software developers, digital librarians, consultants in technology and organizational design, professors, communication strategists and a Pentagon officer. 

Our conversations were rich and animated. But given our many points of reference, I don’t think we were always speaking the same language. Even so, I set aside my inclination to play ‘clarity cop’ when people responded in ways that seemed to miss another’s meaning. 

Because IORG is a research group, a good part of the day was devoted to data: the measures and costs of IO, the time it takes to recover from an interruption. We learned about techniques to focus, technologies to filter and apps to streamline work.

Within the first hour, it struck me that people were referring to IO in the context of quantity alone. So I asked, “Assuming we find ways to reduce the amount of information, do you believe that IO will be solved; that the remaining information will be of quality?” 

My question turned into a discussion. People agreed that a preponderance of ‘critical information’ is incomplete, buried in irrelevant data and so poorly written as to render its meaning unclear. This led to discussions about behaviors that exacerbate IO: failure to understand strategic intent, too much work, and workplace anxiety or fear.

After the conference, over dinner with a friend, I thought about what we didn’t talk about. Kathy Budas, marketing director for Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, was telling me how her work has changed, that reaching an audience is no longer about TV spots or direct mail; it’s about tapping into communities of people who share interests and values, and care more about their connections with one another than about her brand. Ours wasn’t a gripe session, rather a shared excitement about working in a time when conversations and connections with people are more powerful than marketing to people.

I began to wonder if better conversations and connections at work could help reduce IO. Not so much about relaying information verbally, although, at times, a real conversation would be great. It’s about the respect inherent in a genuine connection, the notion of with instead of to, which might encourage us to be more mindful of ourselves as generators of overload – not just victims. Maybe we’d take the time to ask more clearly, read more carefully (my weak spot) and send only what’s needed.

In the days since the un-conference, I’m still thinking about all I learned. And I’m interviewing everyone who crosses my path. A lot of people say they hide behind email rather than talk to difficult coworkers. Some admit to document dumping, as a way to stall when they simply don’t have time for a thoughtful response. The physician next to me on the plane back to Cincinnati describes IO as the glut of texts from colleagues who are too busy to talk in person, but text so hurriedly that they send misinformation.

I am thrilled to have discovered IORG. The members are doing important work and I’d like to contribute to the effort, especially if conversation and connection might be part of the answer.