Life After PowerPoint!

A front-page article in today’s Wall Street Journal reports, “the Foundation for Apologetic Information and Research, a group of Mormon academics who defend the faith, will wrestle with the challenges presented by the two presidential candidates [Mitt Romney and John Huntsman, both Mormons].” The church intends to counter anti-Mormon arguments and misunderstandings.

That’s all well and good. Who wants their faith–or anything they cherish, for that matter–misrepresented?

But then I came upon a line in the article that made me believe the apologists have their work cut out for them: “Otterson [the church director for public affairs] used a blog post to challenge opponents who label the church a ‘cult’…”

Over the years I’ve had many opinions of the Mormon Church, but until someone said it wasn’t a cult, I never thought it was one.

That’s the risk you run when you deny something. By saying you’re not something, you immediately make people think of the very thing you’re denying.

Remember President Richard Nixon’s most (in)famous line? In a televised question-and-answer session during the height of the Watergate scandal, the President defended his reputation. He claimed “I’m not a crook.”

Up until that moment, his opponents had been calling him many names–none of them kind. But from then on, the only name that stuck was “crook.”

By negating something (not “x”), you risk affirming it. I suggest, instead, stating the positive. The church’s public affairs guy should have said what the church is, avoiding the word “cult” altogether. The President should have claimed that he was an honest man.

Of course, you may want to use this technique–affirming by denying–to your opponent’s disadvantage. It’s a sneaky thing to do. It’s not always ethical. And it can backfire on you, when people see through your intentions. But here’s how it works. Think of something bad about your opponent or your opponent’s position, and then say that you do not believe it or you’re not saying it or it is not true.

If you say, for example, “My opponent is not evil, he’s just incompetent,” you implant the idea in your listeners’ minds that he is both evil and incompetent.

If you say “I’m not saying her idea is risky and foolish…”, that’s exactly what you are saying. And it’s what people hear.

So be careful when you assert that something or someone is not something.

Do you have any examples to add to my own? (Please do not post anything negative about the Mormon church.)

I’ve been appalled and saddened by all the images coming out of Japan. And I keep looking at them with a sense of grim fascination. It’s like the proverbial train wreck that I can’t stop watching, only bigger and badder.

Clearly I’m not the only one fascinated (“show me more”) and appalled (“how tragic”) by the images. You can’t escape them.

Images pack a wallop like nothing else. They hit us where it gets our attention: in our emotions and our imaginations. That’s why using them in a speech or presentation can be so effective. And that’s also exactly why using images can be problematical.

Let me back up for a moment to explain why using images — espeically videos — can be an iffy thing.

Here are the dynamics that I hope a speech addresses:

• Connection
  To make the audience feel part of the experience, event, or audience — to give them a sense of belonging.
• Identity
  To help the audience know more about themselves individually or as a group — what makes them who they are, their history, their shared values and mission.
• Emotional engagement
  To stir up some feeling — excitement, curiosity, love, anger, fear, hope — about the message. To make them care about it in some way.
• Information
  To teach them something new.
• Meaning
  To help them understand, to make sense of what they’re learning or of what they already know, because facts and data on their own don’t mean much of anything.
• Assessment
  To show them the value or worth of what’s being addressed. (The cynic, Oscar Wilde said, “knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.”)
• Decision
  To help them know what to do with what they’re learning. How do they use what you’re giving them? How do they decide between several different options, one of which is always to do nothing?

Different speeches / presentations have different goals, of course, so they will emphasize different dynamics. A technical briefing will be more concerned about transmitting information and meaning, for example, than a motivational speech. (Most technical talks, unfortunately, spent too much time and energy presenting information and too little making sense of it, and — to their detriment — they leave emotions completely out of the picture.)

So now let me get back to the point I tried making earlier: using images in a speech can be problematical.

Images can engage emotions so powerfully that they overwhelm every other consideration.

On their own, images do not covey information or meaning. They do not address the thing’s worth or value. And they do not provide the wisdom to help decide what can be done, what should be done.

Powerful emotions, stirred up by images, can make people willing or eager to learn and to decide. (That’s the upside.) But powerful emotions can be their own justification. They can move us so profoundly that we need do nothing else.

What do you think?

Dale Fetherling, the coauthor of my book, died last month. He was one of the good guys, with broad shoulders, a deep voice, and a love of words. I knew him mostly on the professional level, but I liked and respected him and I’m saddened by his death.

His memorial service was quite touching. And I was especially moved by the reflections shared by three of his colleagues.

A eulogy, according to the ancient Greeks and Romans, is supposed to “praise the dead, and inspire or instruct the living.” I think its purpose is to evoke memories of the dead in a way that consoles the living.

The eulogies at Dale’s service did just that. Here’s what I think they got right.

First, because all three eulogists were themselves veteran journalists, they wrote their scripts and read them. They chose their words carefully, making each phrase and each sentence count.

Second, they told stories. Funny stories. “I’ll bet you didn’t know this about Dale” stories. And, since they were talking to people who shared similar experiences of him, “do you remember how he used to do this” stories. Each story brought Dale to life in our imaginations and brought out our affection for him and brought us together.

Finally, they let their affection show. They clearly admired and loved Dale. They grieved his loss. And they let it show. Each one had to pause somewhere in what they were saying — usually in the middle of a story — and choke back a sob before carrying on.

The purpose of a eulogy is the same as the purpose of a funeral. (Speeches are supposed to serve the event in which they are situated.) And these eulogies served that purpose. I left the service feeling that my grief was shared, honored, and eased.

May he rest in peace.

On Saturday a man opened fire with a semi-automatic weapon at a political gathering in Tucson, Arizona. He killed six people (including a 9-year-old girl, three women in their 70s, and a federal judge) and wounded more than a dozen others (including Gabby Giffords, the Democratic Congresswoman for that district).

The tragedy has sparked a lot of debate about the connection between virulent and violent rhetoric, which unfortunately has become a mainstay of American politics these days, and the shootings.

I think it’s too simplistic — and premature — to say that the rhetoric, as ugly and mean-spirited as it has been, is the cause of the massacre. But I think those who say such rhetoric had no connection to the killer’s actions are being disingenuous.

Words — spoken words, specifically – have power. That’s why we use them. And words have consequences. We want them to.

The purpose of a speech is to change the way people think and feel and act. That’s why we give speeches: we want what we say to have an effect. The question we have to ask ourselves is not “do our words affect what other people do?”, but “what do we hope people will do as a result of listening to the words we speak?”

The photo of “Grief” is courtesy of Ann Gav at Flickr.com.

In an earlier post, I reflected on how a speech is like (and unlike) a conversation.

Today I’d like to argue that a speech is like an essay. (I’m reading a collection of essays by George Orwell, All Art Is Propaganda, which got me to thinking about this connection.) 

George Orwell

There’s no definitive definition of an essay, but it’s generally described as 1) a relatively short composition 2) written from the author’s personal point of view 3) that attempts to analyze, understand, or explain a particular theme or subject.

A speech is — or should be — relatively short. I think 20 minutes is a good length for a speech. You can talk longer than that (sometimes you’re asked to speak for an hour, for example), but if you do you should break your speech into shorter (i.e. under 20 minutes) chunks. And you should always remember that while it’s a sin to run over your allotted time, it’s almost always a blessing to finish early.

A speech expresses the speaker’s point of view. If you try to be neutral or objective or to sound like anyone and everyone else, there’s no reason for you to give a speech. Let someone else give it. Or better yet, let no one give it. Invest your wisdom and understanding, your values and passion, your personality in all of its unique and odd splendor into what you say and how you say it.

And a speech attempts to make sense or a particular topic. Just one topic at a time, please. You can talk about a sophisticated, multi-faceted topic, but if you really need to talk about two (or more) topics, give two (or more) speeches.

Preparing a speech, like writing an essay, involves thought: you have to take a position, criticize it, examine the supporting evidence, test its logic, address objections, and refine it. And giving a speech, like publishing an essay, requires commitment: you have to risk putting yourself and what you really believe on the line for others to see, hear, and accept or reject.

What do you think?

A great post from the people at CreativityWorks about metaphors and their misuse got me thinking. It is truly worth reading. (I’m using some of its insights and going off on my own tangent, so don’t blame them fo what you read here.)

Metaphors would seem to be the antidote to business buzz words, which are often abstract and imprecise.

Take ROI as example. “Return on Investment” once had a very precise meaning in financial services. It meant — and still means — according to Investopedia: ”A performance measure used to evaluate the efficiency of an investment or to compare the efficiency of a number of different investments. To calculate ROI, the benefit (return) of an investment is divided by the cost of the investment; the result is expressed as a percentage or a ratio.” There’s even a formula you can use to calculate the ROI.

Now days ROI has lost its specificity and people in all different fields use it simply to mean “making more money (from your investment, your project or program, your effort, your time) than you put into it.” It has become, in other words, corporate speak.

You would think that metaphors, which are by their very nature concrete and specific, would be more effective and powerful. But they’re not. At least, not the ones that are so commonly used in business.

A good metaphor compares one thing — an unknown or ill-defined or abstract thing — to something else — something the listeners know, something that is concrete and specific. A good metaphor doesn’t need to be explained, since its very purpose is to explain or illustrate something else.

Which brings me to the metaphors that business people love. They all conjure up images, which is the idea of a metaphor, but they all too often fail to add insight. Their meaning isn’t immediately apparent. Here’s my rule: If you need to explain it, it’s not a good metaphor.

The 800 Hundred Pound Gorilla

My list of poor, overused, or trite business metaphors includes (in alphabetic order):

• 800 pound gorilla
• best of breed
• blue sky thinking
• boots on the ground
• bring our ‘a’ game
• carrot and stick
• down in the weeds
• drink the kool aid
• eat what you kill
• gone off the reservation
• level the playing field
• low-hanging fruit
• move the needle
• on the same page
• push the envelop
• raise the bar
• rubber hits the road
• step up to the plate
• stick to your knitting
• stir the pot
• take it to the next level
• tear down the silos
• the bleeding edge
• the learning curve
• think outside the box
• throw under the bus
• under the radar
• who moved my cheese?

What do you think? Do you agree or disagree that metaphors shouldn’t have to be explained? Do you take exception with any metaphor on my list? What metaphor would you add?

Photo courtesy of Weiter Winkel at Flickr.

Here’s a thoughtful and well-illustrated presentation about motivation.

It debunks the myth that rewarding people for behavior that you want and punishing them for behavior that you don’t want gets you more of what you want. In place of the carrot and a stick approach to motivation, Dan Pink talks about the importance of appealing to people’s need for autonomy, mastery, and purpose.

I really like what he has to say. What do you think? And what do you think of the illustration?

I think a rant is a great type of a speech, when done properly. It takes a strong point of view — in this case against two misuses of the English language (“I could care less” and “holding down the fort”) — and pounds it home with intelligence and wit.

Do you know any examples of rants worth sharing?

Samuel Goldwyn, the movie producer, said, “If you want to send a message, try Western Union.” He was talking about movies, and if by “send a message” he meant “make an obvious, preachy statement” he was right.

But I think a speech should have a message.

A speech’s message is different from its main idea.

An idea is a thought that structures, unifies, and gives meaning and value to the other information that you present or that your audience already knows.

The message is your moral vision, your vision of how to act in the world.

Your idea is, or should be, explicit. If at the end of a speech the audience is unable to clearly articulate your main point, the speech was, in my opinion, a failure. It was either disjointed or confusing. But your message doesn’t have to be — often shouldn’t be — so obvious. An explicitly stated message can be heavy handed and off putting.

At Gettysburg Lincoln’s idea was this: This nation, founded in the belief that “all men are created equal,” is being tested by war, but it will emerge renewed and strengthened. His (unspoken) message: We must continue fighting to preserve the union and to end slavery. His idea was a way of interpreting — making sense of — the war. That message came from his moral conviction about the rightness of the Union’s cause and about what needs to be done as a result.

Sarah Palin and Barak Obama have radically different ideas about healthcare. But they also have radically different moral visions.

Whether you know it or not, whether you intend to or not, you are always communicating some sort of message, because you are always speaking from your moral vision.

Do you agree or disagree?

Photo courtesy of Natalie Maynor at Flickr.

I believe that speeches and presentations should be built around an idea. One idea. It can be a complex idea, but it still has to be a single, unified idea. Of course, it’s got to be a good idea.

I like the Matthew Frederick’s definition of an idea, which he gives in 101 Things I Learned in Architecture School:

An idea is a specific mental structure by which we organize, understand, and give meaning to external experiences and information.

The purpose of a speech or presentation, then, is to help audiences organize, understand, and give meaning to their experiences and to the information they already know or that you’re presenting. Simply giving people information — even if it’s original, verifiable, and relevant– isn’t enough. People already have access to more information than they can possibly assimilate or use. You have to help them make sense of it and know how to value it.

Clearly, not all ideas are created equal. Some ideas — way too many ideas, these days — are irrational, crazy, and demonstrably false. Just because they are widely disseminated doesn’t mean they’re true. Bad ideas that make the rounds of the internet or the talk shows are still bad ideas.

Here are three basic questions to ask about any idea you’re considering, whether you’re preparing a speech or listening to one:

• What’s the evidence?
  What experience, observation, or information is being put forth? How do you know it is accurate? What degree of confidence do you have in it? What is its source? Is it supported by other material you know to be trustworthy? What evidence contradicts it?
• What are the assumptions?
  An assumption is a hypothesis that is assumed to be true and that may or may not be stated. It’s your job to ferret out all the assumptions being made and to make them explicit. Then you need to decide if they are true. Assumptions often lead to conclusions. If you begin with a false, inaccurate, or misleading assumption, you’ll end up with a bad idea.
• Is it logical?
  Logic is a way of tying things together in a way that makes sense. Pay special attention to the three most common logical fallacies: 1. post hoc, ergo propter hoc; 2) false dichotomy; and 3) ad hominem.

What other ways do you use to determine whether an idea is a good one or not?

Photo courtesy of Zaldy Icaonapo at PublicDomainPictures.net.