Playing to an Audience

Back when I frequented the Poets.org critique forums, I often found myself talking about the distinction between what I called “private poems” and “public poems.” Private poems were poems that existed for the author’s benefit – often to work through emotional events like a breakup or the death of someone close. And there’s nothing wrong with a private poem – it offers catharsis to the person who pens it. But the place of a private poem is in a personal journal and not a literary one. Private poems may deal with the same subject matter as public ones, but what differentiates the process of writing a private poem from the process of writing a public one is the subtle, constant presence of the “other.” In composition classes, it’s referred to as audience, and often treated as a mere consideration or component.

But audience is at the core of writing, and all other techniques and conventions flow from that. It’s a shame that so much of writing in our schools and academic institutions is audienceless. And let’s be clear that a teacher or professor is not an audience, because there is no purpose in writing to that particular person about the chosen topic except demonstration: to prove your knowledge about the topic, your ability to perform research, your writing skills, and your mastery of style guides. Writing for a grade is not the same as writing to communicate a point, a process, a feeling, or an experience. I suspect many students are only confronted with the distinction when they reach university. Their misunderstanding becomes evident when they are suddenly asked to blog for their courses; often the writing is obviously a private demonstration of ability for the instructor’s benefit, and not a public conversation with their classmates or a wider audience.

I remember – at least I think I do – when I came to understand that I wasn’t just writing for myself or for my instructors. My high school creative writing teacher gave us letter grades because she had to, but those letter grades were accompanied by an evaluation that the work was either “publishable,” “publishable with revision,” or “unpublishable.” We were not required to submit our work for publication, but we were, for the first time, treated like working writers trying to communicate with real audiences. We learned to read like writers and openly workshopped each others’ fiction and poems, speaking in detail about how the work worked for us, as well as its strengths and weaknesses. This switch in stance, from students trying to impress to writers trying to engage an audience, changed everything.

It’s something I wish for every student, the earlier the better. I believe that, wherever possible, educators ought to ask their students to write public projects, not private ones. Writing work that will be peer reviewed doesn’t necessarily count – the student’s peers must be a natural audience for the work, not a contrived one. But what if you are a student, with little control over the course material? Simple. Choose to switch stances. Treat your instructor not as your arbiter but as your colleague, and decide that you have something important to share with them. Choose a topic you’ll both find interesting; this almost certainly won’t be the same topic ten of your classmates choose to write about just because there’s abundant literature. Writing is the show-and-tell of adulthood. Bring something that matters.


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The Golden Rule

In most of my classes, when I am teaching email etiquette and protocol, I tell them the stories of Larissa #1 and Larissa #2.  Larissa #1 was a student of mine in the early 1990s, when I was teaching in the Writing and Critical Thinking program at Stanford University. She was raised by immigrants in a poor neighborhood in Los Angeles, and told me she was the first person on her block ever to even enroll at a university. Larissa #1 was super-smart but struggled in her first semester, when she took my class; her high-school studies had been less rigorous that what her wealthier peers could afford, so she had to catch up.

Toward the end of the semester, and very late at night, after midnight, I received an email from Larissa #1. I forget what the subject header was, exactly, but I do remember that it conveyed frustration and anger. The tone startled me; this Larissa was very sweet and friendly. Before I clicked on the In Box link to open the email, I received another one, from Larissa. I *do* remember the subject header for that one: “Please don’t open my first email!”

I deleted the first email, unread, and immediately emailed Larissa #1 to tell her that I had done so. She wrote back, appearing to believe me, to say that she was relieved, that her first email was filled with venting at the deadline I had given for her next assignment.

Years later, in Vancouver, I myself wrote a poorly conceived email to a woman I am calling Larissa #2. There was nothing angry or defamatory in that email, but it revealed an intention I had, a hope, regarding a project the two of us were working on, prematurely. I wrote Larissa #2 a second email, asking her to delete the first one. She didn’t; she read it; this surprised me; our project eventually went off its rails.

I ask my students: Would *you* delete an email after receiving a second one requesting that you do so? I have asked this of more than a thousand students. Fewer than ten have said Yes. The rest have seemed to lament my lack of curiosity, but they get the point, forcefully: In the workplace, you cannot rely on the Golden Rule.


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Editing

You cannot edit yourself any more than you can tickle yourself, and for the same reasons, Diane Middlebrook once told me. Better writers understand this.

***

Here are the 9 C’s I use as an editor of other writers’ work:

1. Completeness

2. Conciseness

3. Clarity

4. Convincingness

5. Currency

6. Correctness

7. Consistency

8. Congruency

9. Courtesy

Almost all writers need a second set of eyes to assess and improve the first four qualities in a document they compose, because they typically already believe they’ve been concise, complete, clear, and convincing enough. To assess and improve the rest often requires that second set of eyes, too.

I believe that *courtesy* comprises all the other qualities, as the basis of successful communication, of fostering and maintaining relationships.

Thank you, Bob Crockett, for suggesting numbers 7 and 8 (though I’m embarrassed I hadn’t already placed “consistency” on the list).

[Note: My list overlaps a lot with this one but was put together independently. It’s not surprising its author and I reached similar conclusions, of course.]


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The Purpose of Professional Communication


I tell my students that the primary purpose of workplace communication is to foster and maintain relationships. I usually tack on an inverse way of saying it – “The *other* primary purpose is to not screw up” – because that’s a helpful way of remembering the first formulation (which I wish I had coined). Other purposes (to persuade, to inform, to protect, to describe, to amuse, or to organize, for example) are subordinate to this primary one.


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On Being Forgiven

I began training in the martial arts when I was 17. I’d read George Leonard’s book The Ultimate Athlete a year or two prior and had fallen in love with a martial art called aikido. It was offered at my university by Shihan Bowen, who taught both aikido and karate.

One day in class he demonstrates the difference between the arts.

“Let’s say I have a student who wants to cause trouble.” He motions to his assistant to come at him with a punch, and demonstrates disabling him with an arm break but doesn’t follow through. “If I use karate to stop him, I break his arm, and I am not forgiven.”

“But if I use aikido to stop him,” he says, motioning again to his assistant, who throws the punch and is wheeled around and quickly pinned to the floor, “I don’t break his arm, and I am forgiven.”

When faced with a communication that you find threatening — a complaint or a conflict — do you strike back, or do you respond in such a way that you will be forgiven?


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By the Book

The other day I called Asus for authorization to return my husband’s laptop for repairs. Hoping not to have to speak to support, I’d filled out the online request form, but I ended up having to call them anyway.

The support rep asked me to confirm my name, phone number, address, and e-mail address. Each piece of data elicited the response: “Thank you for that information.” Not “Thank you,” or “Thanks.” “Thank you for that information.”

This is going to be a long call, I thought.

The previous warranty issue with the laptop had drawn out over months and many phone calls, so I was familiar with the protocol. Each time, no matter how many times I had already called, the support rep asked me to confirm all of my personal information and thanked me for providing each piece. When we were done, each rep gave a summary of the call and the actions taken.

I understood some of this. It made sense to confirm my details the first couple times to ensure they’d been entered correctly. But by about the fifth call, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Can we skip this?” I pleaded.

It also made sense to summarize the call, in case there was a misunderstanding. But the language throughout the call was so stilted and so unvarying from rep to rep that it was clear each rep adhered faithfully to his script.

It seemed to me, after this latest call, that instead of reciting a script, the support rep could have easily been replaced by one.

An online troubleshooter could have walked me through the steps I had to take to confirm to their satisfaction that the laptop was indeed faulty and needed repair. Even with a name and address as tricky as mine, it could have solicited and confirmed that information with nary a fumble.

I would trade those Asus reps for a computer quicker than you could say “Thank you for that information.”

But that’s not really what I want, at least not much of the time.

What I really want is this: a human being with enough autonomy to go off-script.

A script, whether programmed into a computer or read by a support rep, cannot care for a customer. It cannot soothe anger, crack a joke, engage in smalltalk, or skip parts of the algorithm based on what you’ve already told them. Even its expressions of empathy sound insincere. The phrase “I apologize for your frustration” makes me more frustrated as a customer, not less.

Scripts can be useful to teach new reps. But if you’re not weaning reps off them and giving them the freedom to speak to customers in their own language and using their own problemsolving skills, you ought to call it customer dispatching. You’ve no right to call it customer service.


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