Do you even network?

Do You Even Network?

There is a put down joke in Weightlifting circles. Can you imagine how it feels when somebody puts you down for not being bulked up or looking buff in a tight tshirt after spending hours pumping iron in the gym. Or perhaps you do look good and they want to put you down anyway.

Hey Man…Do you Even Lift?

Some business people put as much time into networking their businesses as a bodybuilder does into pumping up his or her pectorals. The mantra is “No Pain No Gain” and there is a lot of pain in both pushing heavy weights and in networking.

 

The arena of networking is standing in hotel function rooms amid the plastic flowers and detritus of last weekend’s wedding party. The taste is biting into the stale crusts and the congealed grease of cold bacon sandwiches, washed down with lukewarm gritty coffee. You smile wanly at your nearest fellow business person and make polite small talk about the weather and traffic in the hope they will be interested in whatever you have to sell… or knows somebody who might be.  

If it your first time then you might be approached by the group’s networking leader who will inspect your name badge and pull up your reference on his mental rolodex. I was once approached. “Ooh an Orthopaedic Manufacturer’s supplier, we don’t have any of those.” Seeing as my company was in an ultimate niche market then that was hardly surprising. But being in a niche is lonely so enduring the gritty coffee was an attempt to meet business people in my area.

One event I went to was a chamber of commerce evening which had been taken over by a Networking organisation calling themselves a “chapter”. The very thought of belonging to a chapter put me off, too cultish for me. We all sat in thrall as the chapter leader explained in an Americanised sales patter how "You do not care about our businesses if you mind getting up at 6.30 every Wednesday morning to make contacts." That rankled.

Then the strategically scattered chapter members placed around the room stood up and gave their spiel.

“I’m a financial consultant and I want you to find me a prospect. I am looking for a medium sized property developer who needs finance from me…” Another a development manager for a law firm wanted to find a medium sized property developer who needs conveyancing work… A web developer who was looking for a medium sized property developer for a rental web site, etc, etc.

The idea was that you hand over all details of your contacts list to the group and they will do the same. Having been on the end of unsolicited calls from a similar group from a friend who had given my own details as Sales Director and therefore fair game for unsolicited calls for vehicle finance, graphic design, recruitment… I was perhaps a tad cynical.

I tentatively put up my own hand. “I have a friend who is a successful medium sized property developer.” I paused for the salivating effect…. “But if I gave out his name to all of you and you all call him I am not sure would he still be pleased to be my friend.” I sat down to nods from the non believers and an “hmm” from the chapter leader who swiftly moved on to the next hopefully more positive question.

In the next seat to me my neighbour whispered, “I wanted to ask that but I can’t my bank wouldn't like it.”

The meeting dispersed soon after and I never paid up to join the group and commit to getting up early every Wednesday morning. I obviously didn’t care enough.

That was a few years ago pre-credit crunch and a different more corporate time of my life. When I bought the hotel I went to tourism networking meetings and local groups and not able to keep my hand down volunteered my time and knowledge in a number of groups to the benefit of pushing the hotel. It worked and I became well known in the area. Even after finishing that stage I still am. 

The last breakfast event I went to was a carbon copy of one five years previous, the government, council and quango people looking at their watches to see how soon they could decently escape and the private business people being a bit flummoxed but keen to show their support to the organisers. The danish pastries were perhaps better and the morning if not enjoyable was survivable. To be fair it was fine and I made a couple of good contacts and raised my profile just a bit more. I gave some cards out for my book and people seemed interested. Who knows what will come of it?    

Networking does have a purpose and most business people do it unconsciously all the time but beware the fanatics who have bought into the religious fervour of their networking prowess. 

Looking at a specific new (non-literary) project I chose to contact a lady who boasted on all her website and literature of her networking skills, which I presumed would mean she would be “on it” with a positive proactive response. The initial reply took 4 weeks and my follow up query has still not been answered. 

I don't care if she didn't want to work with me but to ignore me has raised my ire and is bad manners. Perhaps in the modern world of instant communication I was deleted as insignificant. Perhaps if I was a better networker, or prepared to give the name of my business developer friend then my potential contact would have been more worthwhile.    

Now with a wry smile I am tempted to ask her in mock surprise, “Do you even network?” 

All the Best 

JRS 

www.jrsheridan.com

Writing as Jazz

.

My Grandfather was 99 last month. He is a lovely man, sharp and spritely enough to be interested in my fledgling writing career and communicates regularly with me by email. His social life is better than mine and he has a bevy of ladies who take him to lunch groups and church services.

He retired as a manager in a factory and was delighted to escape from the tribulations of seventies industrial relations. He has had a full retirement that has lasted nearly forty years and with his youth his well past there is a twinkle in his eye that tells of a life well lived. In his youth he was a saxophonist in a local Jazz band and there is a vinyl record of his playing. He still listens and has passed on his love of Jazz to his two sons my father and my Uncle Brian.

Uncle Brian lives in Canada now but was over for the birthday meal and was complimenting me on my book “Splinter”. He had enjoyed the story although he did have a bit of a reservation that the boss of my gangster family was also called Brian.

I was telling Uncle Brian that if I was serious about being a novelist then I should probably invest my time in a Creative Writing course, which I keep considering and putting to one side as the muse takes me. I told him that life gets in the way and besides by the time I do the degree I could have written and self published three or four novels. Brian, who is a Doctor and eminent specialist in his field, compared the idea of being taught creative writing to being the same as his disappointment at some of the new generation of musicians who are coming out of Universities with a degree in Jazz music he sees in Toronto. His point was that technically they were very good but they lacked the spontaneity needed to make them excel.  

You can’t teach Jazz improvisation it has to come from the heart in the same way you can teach grammar and form but you can’t teach how to put heart into your story telling. Following my put down from the poisoned pen of the Creative Writing graduate lady this struck a chord.

Technically my writing needs extra precision but putting the words on the page and developing the story my brain comes alive. I employ an editor to help me with the finished story but the story and characters are mine alone and they definitely come from my heart.    

 

As a writer I imagine my pre-war granddad played in smoke filled drinking dens surrounded by be-suited gangsters and their molls, a la Bugsy Malone. Probably not, but he has a recording of his music and I have written a book so it is grounding to know that my creative urge is inherited from somewhere close to home.

 

Grandad is going to Toronto again this Summer and Toronto is a great place for Jazz. Last time I was there Brian took me to a buzzing basement Jazz club. I enjoyed the atmosphere and setting if not fully appreciating the Modern Jazz. It was all a bit "plinky plink, clash, plink" for me, but then I was kicked out of the trials for the cadet band for having no sense of rhythm.  I remember watching the audience and making up stories it was a great place for inspiration.

As a Jazz musician plinky plinks around with the rhythm and makes up the tune as he goes along, so a writer develops a story. The difference is that a live performance is over in minutes the music haunts the memory and taps the toe, a novel takes months to write and further months to fine tune and hone to a publishable standard. The words in the story are there to be critiqued, shot-at and derided, the notes of the Jazz musician are created free form and released into the world as soon as they are played for the audience to remember and relish.

A Jazz musician closes his eyes lost in the flow of his music. Can that be taught? They say you should write for your own enjoyment and the readers will pick up on the positive vibes. Can that be taught?

There is much animated debate on how to write, how to market and the dreary argument of whether you are a proper writer if you do not have the “gatekeeper validation” of an agent or publisher or creative writing lecturer. Who cares?

In the same way a Jazz musician blows their trumpet is it not better to just sit down, write and enjoy the creative process.  

Looking at the long life of my granddad who lived through two world wars and seen so much and he still enjoys his Jazz. I hope I am still enjoying life at 99 and when I look back I don’t think I will regret not doing a Creative Writing course. Do you?

Oxbow Lakes, a publishing analogy

Oxbow lakes – A publishing analogy.

Last week on holiday in Scotland I watched salmon jumping up rapids on the beautiful and fast flowing river Dee. My wife and I had rented a cottage and visited the area to see old friends. The friend standing next to me on the riverside is a Doctor of Geology and works in the oil industry and I am vicariously proud of his achievements. I listened in admiration as he pointed out the different rock types to his young sons.  While my friend went on to great academic heights, for reasons of teenage rebellion and inattention as much as inability I failed my Geography exams.

The experience of standing by the river and walking the wild country glens rekindled my dormant memories of school geography lessons. We were close to the River Esk and I recalled the term “Eskers” with affection. As we walked along glaciated landscapes scoured into U's by the ice we stepped across a “Moraine” on the map and I recognised “Truncated Spurs” and “Hanging Valleys”.

It is funny what comes back to you from school. As we walked on another forgotten lesson came into my mind about “Oxbow Lakes”. Later recovering from our exertions in an old Aberdeen pub over a ‘round the regions’ whisky tasting platter I developed my concept about meandering rivers and their relevance to the modern age of publishing. 

In a definition pulled from the recesses of my memory, Oxbow lakes are formed over time when a river meanders around its valley and forms a loop. The slow flowing river deposits silt and debris and faster flowing winter flood water erodes away at banks making the meandering loop more pronounced. Eventually the entrance to the loop becomes tighter and as the silt and debris builds up the river becomes backed up and forces through a new channel. This leaves the former meander cut off from the main river current and forms a lake looking like the loop of a ribbon bow or an ox’s hoof. The straighter river then rushes past at a faster pace on its way to the sea. The Oxbow lake forms its own ecosystem separate to the river. It either finds a new water source or it dries up and disappears.

As we savoured the whisky fumes I hypothesised about the state of the popular publishing industry.

The source in the mountains was the ancient history of Caxton’s printing press and the novels such as Robinson Crusoe and Moll Flanders became a babbling brook. Heading down as the water of the upper stages of the river were the works of Jane Austen, Charles Dickens and Mark Twain and down to the broader waters of Agatha Christie and John Buchan. As we reach the mature river further downstream the flow becomes ponderous with slow loops making navigation difficult.

Then the internet comes along and with each modern book published traditionally or by independents the raindrops build up at the head of the river and insist on finding their way down to the sea of readers at the rivers estuary. The skies darken and the weight of new content makes its way down to the meandering loops.    

As in nature, pressure builds up behind a constriction or blockage in the flow and the waters/words find their way down to the sea by the easiest route.  It pushes through the neck of the loop on its way to the readers. The loop becomes an oxbow lake of silted up ideas, viewpoints and traditions.

Riverside dwellers are now faced with stagnant water and insist that their waterfront views should stay the same. They stamp their feet in anger at the clever engineers who insist that they can not re-route the flow as the river of words has moved on. The canny ones have planned for this. They are prepared when they need to move and are ready to take advantage of their new location on the revitalised publishing landscape.

My Geologist friend took another sip of his whisky and concurred that is indeed how oxbow lakes are formed although he was not sure about the world of publishing and we laughed about our Geography teachers. After the hangover cleared I carried on with my writing hoping to add another raindrop of content to the flow of published work.

As the content flows by there will be oxbow lakes created from entrenched positions on all sides of the future of publishing debate but the content of words being added to the flow will not cease to find their way to the readers. The distribution channels might change but books are here to stay. Slainte!

www.jrsheridan.com