Albert Thomas Berkshire :: Author

– by Albert Berkshire

A little over a year ago, I wrote an article about writer’s block and the highs and lows of being, as my good friend Trent calls us, a Creative. It was one of those things that rattled around in my head on a four hour drive and pretty much wrote itself.

Most of the things I write are not so fluid.

I can struggle for hours, days, even weeks waiting for the little nugget to come to me that fires me up to write. Tangents don’t just happen. They have to be fueled. And whether that energy source is conversation, alcohol, the observation of sheer stupidity, people watching (the previous often a byproduct of such actions – usually in a grocery store), or my personal favourite – other people’s quirks and hang ups…

…perhaps we better explore the latter. I’m not judging you. Or you. Or you. I have some serious hang ups. S E R I O U S hang ups. For instance. I don’t like feet. I hate people’s feet. Feet whig me out in ways you can’t imagine. I once worked with a girl – let’s call her Lisa, cause that’s her name – who used to come into my office barefoot. Sure it was because she was 7, 8, 9, 10 – maybe 11 months pregnant and her feet hurt from wearing her big people shoes. But I had a rule and would promptly ask her to leave and slip some pillow covers or shams over her pedicured, but swollen feet before returning to continue talking about whatever we were discussing before her FEET came into the equation. And the first time my wife, then “friend” (I’m pretty certain she’s never read anything I’ve ever written, so we’re all safe here) put her feet up on my lap whilst watching a movie…I lost complete track of the plot line and possibly the fact that the machine started eating the VHS tape (yeah. VHS. I’m over 40. Try to get past it. I know I am.) And then there’s showering with people. YMCA? Not on your life. Years ago when I was a young single man who would do anything for girl? No way. Jodie Foster. I’d shower with Jodi Foster. I think that’s my safe zone. Right there. Jodi. Hang up solved. And there are many more. I can’t touch meat. I can’t touch someone after they’ve touched meat. If you eat meat…that’s great. Grill it up and have yourself a scoff. I’ll be in the corner like a little school girl in Halloween 20, or some other relevant horror film. I once cooked chicken for a family friend who has a severe allergy (or something medical) to all things spice. I cooked it without ever touching it. No hand or finger of Albert came in contact with the chicken parts at any time. And I had them on skewers with pineapple. That’s some serious hang up skill.

Jesus. And people pay for therapy. It cost me $10 a year for this domain name. Somewhere out there (we’re not singing yet) a psychologist is crying into her wine.

So back to other people’s hang ups. I will first point out that conversation is my greatest inspiration. I love LOVE LOVE LOVE the art of conversation. I’ll talk about anything with just about anyone. My friend Bob? We will never talk about politics because he ends every debate with “You’re my favourite liberal Canadian.” Guess what Bob – WE ALL ARE! Love ya. Mean it. (Bob’s form LA. That’ the equivalent of saying “Hi!”)

Where was I? (Oh my ghad. I have some great 3AM in LA stories. Maybe next article.)

The Hang Ups. Sounds like a B-Movie knock off.

Conversation, if you really pay attention, is one of the great pieces of humanity. If you can put your BlackBerry away for ten or sixty minutes, you’ll discover the most amazing stories that people have to tell. It is the one great benefit to our species’ evolutionary development into self-aware beings. I say this because when we listen to a person, and I mean REALLY listen to that person, we come to understand so much more about them. In particular, those of us who are so incredibly fortunate to have our hearing and sight intact, we get the bonus body language to back up the nuances (my goodness I love that word) of conversation. And in those moments when we are actively listening, doggedly ignoring all peripheral distractions, and keenly engaged, we are graced with the special revelation of that person’s most intimate characteristics.

But not just because we are listening. Because we were paying attention.

That’s when you come to not only understand the person, but to appreciate them for exactly who they are. The person who can’t take another moment in their high heel shoes. The person who really just wants to run away and start life over. The person who desperately needs their kids to take a time out. The person who gets whigged out by ketchup. (For the love of all things considered holy, it is NOT catsup. That’s two kitties getting acquainted. “Sup?” “Sup?” “Meow.” “Meow”.)

Those are the moments that make conversation the greatest purveyor of all things worth writing about. And as some people, who actually read what I write, not just glaze over it like they are icing one of Tim Horton’s finest, fully understand, when inspiration walks into the room – bare feet and all (ick) – you just have to go head down like Schroeder (not Rick, the piano one. Oh ghad I can’t believe I had to explain that one) and click away on the keys like it is going to be the last moment in your life that you’ll get to write.

And sometimes, it feels like the last time you’ll ever get to write. Actually…it feels like that a lot of the time. Even right now. Which is why, I think, I wanted to write this piece.

Last year, after I wrote that article, or blog, or piece called High Tide, someone told me it may have been the most honest thing I had ever written. And until that point, I think it was. But I now realize, like the actor standing in the rain after the girl walked away with his heart (I also love mediocre chick flicks), that that reader, that – person – was actively listening, doggedly ignoring all peripheral distractions, and keenly engaged in what I was writing.

It made my heart race.

And that’s something pretty overwhelming for a writer to experience. Someone not only got what I was saying, but could relate to what I was sharing. Maybe that’s the biggest truth in writing. Maybe that’s the experience the crack addict is lusting after when chasing the dragon. Maybe that’s the runner’s high that eludes so many people. And like the crackhead who keeps on hitting to experience again the first high, or the runner who goes a little further looking for that euphoric moment afoot, the writer just keeps on writing with the hopes that they’ll get on that roll and share something that binds him or her to that reader – that person – who’ll take to time to absorb the story.

I love stories. And I love the one that I should be working on right now. But this was in my head. And I just had to get it out.

Just like the feet had to be covered. The shower had to be shared. The meat had to be cooked. The ketchup had to be removed from the table.

Or maybe I needed to clear my head. Done.

It’s the little things.

Maybe the story I’m supposed to be working on will be the most honest thing I’ve ever written.

Maybe the story is only interesting because it keeps playing hard to get.

I mean, I’m no professor in a bean bag chair, but I think the sweetest things can make your heart race. You know it’s real when it doesn’t need any ketchup on the side.

I’ll see you around. I have a book to finish.

Albert Berkshire is a writer, producer and voice actor. Most of the time he just rambles on in a somewhat incoherent fashion, and sometimes people understand. He loves conversation, appreciates a person’s story, and likes long walks on the beach. Okay, that last one might be another hang up. Albert prefers climbing mountains. Telling other people’s stories has helped make his company, GreatCreative.Com, successful. For a much shorter, and less frequent rambling, follow Albert on Twitter @albertberkshire.

– by Albert Berkshire

In the September issue of Vogue Magazine, buried near the back of the 916 pages, of which I am certain is 80 to 90 percent advertising or puff-piece journalism, is an article by Jonathan Van Meter in which Chelsea Clinton is quoted as saying, “I like the right words. I think economy and precision of language are important.”

While Ms. Clinton has much more formal education than me, I will state that she should have said, “…economy and precision of language is important.” Language being a single noun and economy and precision being qualifiers, or adjectives. But that’s a point for another paragraph. And it’s just down below if your attention span insists that you move along quickly.

Despite her grammatical faux pas, I find myself quite enthralled with the former US First Daughter. I find it considerably refreshing that other people, far more notable than me and many notable people I know or have known, are concerned with proper, efficient and effective uses of the English language. In particular, since I am in the communication business (yes, I’m one of those people who gets paid to make up shit that convinces you to buy shit you don’t need. Advertising. It’s the scourge of society that is paying for a house with a killer view and a lot of vacations to places with more great views), it is only logical that I be transfixed – perhaps transfixed isn’t the right word. Perhaps in the figurative sense, I am affected deeply when communicators – people in public relations, sales, client management, and advertising – fail to use language properly.

Economy and precision of language presents me with a challenge. There is a common knowledge among friends and colleagues, with whom I speak regularly, that there is no such thing as “a quick story from Albert”. It’s true. I am a little long winded, but that comes from a) being raised in Newfoundland. Newfoundlanders love to spin a yarn; b) I tell stories for a living and rarely find myself lost for words, although a few friends have left me speechless as of late; and c) sometimes you have to rage on to make your point.

And that brings me to a point in which economy and precision are more important. Brevity is nice. Some people say so much without ever saying more than “hello”. (No this isn’t a Jerry McGuire moment) Some people have the the ability to recite the equivalent of War and Peace (in length, certainly not in relevance, and by no means anywhere close to the former in significance) without conveying a single coherent thought.

Pssst. Over here. The other day I was on the phone with an account representative for one of my clients. I prefaced the call with “I just have one quick question…” FIFTY TWO minutes later I said, “I really have to go and get this done for you.” I wonder how Ms Clinton would have handled that situation? That’s rhetorical. I don’t need to know.

When it comes to communicating effectively, part one of what I will now turn a phrase as “The Clinton Principal”, economy of words is vital.

And that brings me to precision. Part The Second. This is where it gets serious…‘cause rambling on and on is no crime against the Queen’s English.

I take exception to using a lot of words to convey a simple point (unless I’m writing an article or novel and then I’ll spew hyperbole and harvest adjectives until the cows come home). One of my more favourite examples is, “We’ll need to convene in order to establish a dialogue.” My version is, “We should talk.” Now I know it sounds more impressive and carefully planned to present your thoughts in a, well, fancy way. But when you really want to make a point to the natives, speak in the tongue they know. Brevity, or precision, is golden. It really is.

And can you imagine what radio and TV commercials would sound like if we used extremely long or confusing phrases to sell you a product?

Actually, I can give you an example. this evening, while watching some TV show, a commercial for some sort of vaginal cream (yes, you are actually reading this) came up on the screen. They clearly stated that you could take one pill for your yeast infection (I may never eat bread again) and it would stop “the symptom of external irritation”. External irritation. Admittedly, despite my profession and exceptional Google-Fu (thank you Stephanie Pearl-McPhee for bringing that wonderful term into my life), I had never heard of external irritation – aside from my neighbours (no no, on the other other side). I had to turn to my wife and post the exceptionally economical question, “What the?” to which she replied, “Itching”, and then promptly left the room.

Itching. Now let’s put that in context. A context in which you or I might use that term in a real world situation.

You: “I’m experiencing external irritation.”

Albert: “Really? I’m just itchy”.

You: “Do you think we might be encountering the occurrence of an adverse immune response to –

Albert (cutting you off): – this conversation? Most certainly. Or, I’m just allergic to you.”

And people pay me to make this shit up. Amazing.

I’m not sure what makes me feel more odd. The fact that you know I read Vogue Magazine, the realization that there was actually words in the magazine outside of the advertising agent’s contact information (seriously, pick one up if you can lift it and look through it), or that fact that I referenced Chelsea Clinton and a vaginal cream in the same article.

If not effective communication, certainly this would serve as some sort of example of comic relief. If not for you, for me.

Albert Berkshire is a writer, producer and voice actor. How’s that for economy? I’ll tell you. It’s horribly unsatisfying. Grabbing your attention, create a desire, making you an offer, and compelling you to act in under 30 seconds has helped make his company, GreatCreative.Com, successful. For a much shorter, and less frequent rambling, follow  Albert on Twitter @albertberkshire.

 

– by Albert Berkshire

I thought it would feel better in a different language.

It doesn’t.

I have, on occasion, asked myself, “Why did I just do that?” It may have been after I overstated the obvious when attempting to make a point. It could have been when I ordered fish when I really wanted the salad. It could have been when I used Hotwire to book a hotel knowing that I was risking a stay at the lovely, doily-appointed Sutton Hotel when I really wanted to stay at The Westin. It could have been when I had a beer instead of a much more enjoyable option like a vodka-club soda-lime. But until now, it had never been after I agreed to take on a job that I really, really…really didn’t want to do.

I compromised my principals.

I did a project for a client I really, sincerely, like; with a talent whom I never wanted to hire; for a fee that made me scratch my head.

Now, the fee part is my own issue. I have a client who has been here from day one. Always pays his bills, is always clear and concise with in expressing his expectations, and is genuinely appreciative of my time and work. And he always buys me dinner and drinks when we are in the same city. Without fail, he is a generous man.

But doing the job I didn’t want to do…well, that’s just a small thing about not wanting to hire a certain talent because of my own little set of rules. You put me in a difficult position once, and we’re done. I don’t risk my reputation, or my business relationships, for anyone. No matter how good you think you are at what you do.

You may wonder why I would take the job. Why anyone would. Why it matters. Why I would write about it. Why the sky is blue. Actually, I can answer the latter more easily than I can any of the previous self-inquiries. But like anyone like me who does what I do for a living…(actually, there is no one like me who does what I do for a living. Sure there are others who do a similar kind of work, or may seem to be similar to me in some way or another, but they are not like me. I am Albert. That’s who my clients hire.)…feels the need to write and explain and tell stories. It’s just what we – what I – do.

And then there’s the other, directed, or instructed, “do”.

We, business people, do things in the course of our daily business activities that astound us, and most certainly, the pundits and consultants (certified or otherwise) who observe that which we do. We make adjustments to our day to make a client, or even the housekeeper, happy. Some of us might even have a “drop everything for that guy” policy. It’s not always fair, wise or enjoyable, but that’s a part of doing business. It is, however, never unethical in my world. THAT’S where I draw the line. Yet, we never tell the clients we are doing something beyond the scope of our professional comfort zone (unless we aren’t going to do it, then it is a reason), we just suck it up and do it.

So at what point do we stop the bloated rolling medicine ball of commerce and say; “I’m sorry, but I’m not willing to compromise my better judgement, my sense of self worth, my personal time with my family, or my peace of mind to do that for you”?

Sidebar: I am quite certain that at “I’m sorry”, the response, or more accurately, the interjection, would have been, “Don’t apologize. Just get it done.” And this takes me back to the day back in 2005 when a fellow worker stood at my, then, desk tapping his foot waiting for me as I typed on my merry way down the cart path of the creative world in which my brain was vacationing at the moment, and then barked instructions at me in a less than polite way that ended with “just get it done”. That was the day I decided to quit my day job. I couldn’t imagine 20 more years of that environment…or that guy peering over the top of my 14-inch CRT monitor (yes, even in 2005) barking instructions that I knew would always end with “just get it done”. Jesus, I hope I either outlive him, or retire before him. Success, they say, is the best revenge. 

So, anyway, there I was on my now faux vacation…working. Seated in my hotel room, laptop on the makeshift office desk, my family all sitting around having drinks, laughs, and snacks; and I’m sending work to a voice talent I didn’t want to hire, and getting ready to produce concert tour commercials for a radio campaign. All because a client I really like and appreciate – asked me to do it.

And I’m pretty certain I won’t be getting any Paul McCartney & Bruce Springsteen tickets in the mail for my efforts. I just know the voice talent I didn’t want to hire, will.

As a good friend likes to remind me; “The suckage ratio on that is pretty high.”

 

Albert Berkshire is a writer, producer and voice actor. He considers “time off” to be more than just a sport. It is the bridleway to regaining workplace sanity where the vehicles of business are not welcome. And as such, he vacations with vigour…even when there’s work to be done. Getting the job done, despite his crumbling fortress of self-imposed principals, has helped make his company, GreatCreative.Com, successful. To read about his professional side, visit www.greatcreative.com. And for a much shorter, and less frequent rambling, follow Albert on Twitter @albertberkshire.

– by Albert Berkshire

In December of 1997, Hilary Montbourquette taught me two of the most valuable lessons I would ever learn in business.

1) Never be the drunkest employee at the company Christmas party when you know there will be cameras present; and

2) Always make your Thank-You’s personal.

As I opened his card in my office, a few days before Christmas, he exposed a rather disturbing grin as he walked away from my desk, and on to see the next person, who, I was about to discover, would likely experience the same fate as would I.

Inside the Christmas card, was some cash, a personal note thanking me for being a loyal and hard-working guy who was always ready to step up when needed (I was) … and a photo of me … well, I was indeed the drunkest person at the party, and there was evidence…and possibly a wig. I still have it in a box labeled “Shit Albert, For Some Reason, Can’t Throw Out”.

Sidebar: Also in that box are three Toronto newspapers from January 1, 2000, a number of photos I shot and particularly liked from my days in Journalism School, a video tape of the artist L. Hope Young smoking a cigarette to the music of Sinead O’Connor, a few important-to-my-security photos of some people I know, a couple of photos from Nassau in 1995 documenting my friend Jen consuming a lot of beef noodle soup, and me with the Stanley Cup (also very drunk and again in front of a camera, despite having learned the photo lesson from Hilary two years prior). The Stanley Cup story, by the by, is particularly odd and wholly deserving of its own story…and thank you card. Oddly, I drink very little these days. There’s just no time. There’s writing to be done.

The photo from Hilary was amusing, and I wasn’t the only person to receive one, thusly, we all had some good laughs recalling the 1996 Q93 Christmas Party. (Sometimes holding onto a photo for an entire year is worth the self-imposed suspense. I’ve done it myself.) And while I may to this day question his motives in presenting me with what was certainly a ‘copy’ of the photo, I do know that even if it was a reminder to me that he had the upper hand, it was also very personal.

I don’t know of many instances when I have received a photo of me from someone else. I’m sure the guys have shared some pictures, and a few colleagues have done the same, but those are more common since the explosion of the digital age, where it is quick and easy to email or post a photo and tag a friend in the process.

Instant. Cold. Impersonal. Yes decidedly convenient. Meh.

The fact that Hillary took the time to write a personal note, in a card, and include a copy of the photo (actually on Kodak paper), meant more to me than the $50 or $100 bucks in the card – despite my paltry salary. I am, perhaps, more touched by the recollection of the sentiment, than I was back that December day. Still, 15 years later, it remains fresh in my mind.

The personal thank you card; one you actually write in, sign, and post, is the quintessential form of communication. And I will defend it beyond the day Canada Post, USPS, or even the Royal Mail cease to exist.

Digital junkies, hold-over yuppies, corporate multi-multi-multi-taskers will argue it takes too long and they can send emails with their signature already formatted at the bottom of the page to fifty clients in the time it takes to send one, personal card.  But to what end? Anyone can type (or copy and paste) a thank-you email, complete with the luxury of digital editing, spelling and grammar check – although it seems to be less important to an alarming number of “corporate” types. On the flip side (a place you know I like to spend my time…debating…everything), there is something profoundly special about a) receiving something in the mail; b) the unedited, personal note in the sender’s handwriting – however unpracticed it may be since we all spend far too much time typing and very little, if any, time writing with a pen or pencil; and c) having something to display on your desk, night table, studio speaker, cork board, refrigerator, or the like.

It is real. It is tactile (humans being a tactile species – we like to touch). It is far better, more important, better received, and more fondly remembered for years and years and years than any email you could ever write. I’m a writer. I know this fact because I carefully craft every email I send. (Yes, you may have received a few quick replies form me, but I am very anal-retentive about my grammar and spelling. Typos are free game from time to time – everyone has to have a signature quirk.) Plus – you can’t delete a real thank you card.

And if that doesn’t convince you; it is something in the mail that isn’t a bill or a flyer.

I have received a lot of thank you cards from people over the years. I love every single one of them. I keep them all. From family, friends old and new, employers, past lovers, business colleagues, clients, and my spouse. Some come in the mail, some are hand delivered. One client likes to courier them to me. (seriously)

The thing is, if you really want to be remembered – a month from now, or 15 years later – be the person who took the time to send a personal note, penned in your hand, with something personal that you know will matter to the recipient. Even if you print a couple of photos on standard printer paper. Because short of sending a person flowers (Oh, the cliche) with a little card on a pitchfork wedged into an oddly textured green sponge-like substance, nothing says I appreciate you more than the Thank You card.

I smile every time I read, and re-read them. And I fondly remember the sender.

It matters that much.

What you write, in your own hand, means far more than you could ever imagine.

 

Albert Berkshire is a writer, producer and voice actor. He writes for a living, and refuses to allow the digital world to erase the purity and significance of the hand-written word. Currently, he lives, writes, plays, and consults for clients on Canada’s West Coast. Pouring his heart onto a page, and relentlessly appreciating the emotion found in the written word, has helped make his company, GreatCreative.Com, successful. To read about his professional side, visit www.greatcreative.com. And for a much shorter, and less frequent rambling, follow Albert on Twitter @albertberkshire. 

– by Albert Berkshire

I could write an article for just about every conversation I have each day. I could. Not everything would be relevant – to you or me – but I could. And since I have a lot of, sadly, irrelevant conversations in the course of my business day, I like to stick to writing about the conversations that inspire, or on the other end of the pendulum’s swing – infuriate.

Today, my morning being relatively devoid of colloquial spam, I’m happy to write about business, and the ideas spawned from a conversation this morning.

Damn. This already smells of self-help for the budding CEO. It is what it is. Oh wait, I hate the grossly redundant expression. Mostly because I have something valuable to add (I suppose, otherwise, I wouldn’t be writing this article, blog, post, update, material, or whatever you prefer to call this electronic invasion into your psyche), and that expression is akin to throwing in the conversational towel and calling it a grade-eight day. I feel like I should, instead, for ratings, hits, or notoriety, talk about Katie and Tom. Scratch that. I’m better educated and far more interesting, and just a little more confident – in case you didn’t notice that personality trait.

Back on the dusty, exhaust-riddled, cobblestone corner of Determination and Despair, an intersection, which I am inclined to think is visited by many of us in the course of life and career, I find myself watching from a nearby coffee shop. A euphemism, if you will, for my voyeur state of professional and career mind. I see from my outlook point, seated on a wrought iron chair that is destined to leave a grid-like pattern on the back of my legs, the faces of people who are overcome with the world. Most of us, at some or several points in our collective careers (we will all have many in our lifetime), come up against challenges that we feel are insurmountable.

Roadblocks, if you will.

Without getting into any heavy research here, which means you’re about to be subjected to my opinion and insight – a wildly fun and exhilarating, career-baggage-riddled roller coaster ride in itself – and not withstanding the matter that I don’t want to ever solicit valuable research data from that Neurophychologist I dated briefly back in 1998, I’m going to offer some conjecture regarding why we do the silly career things we do.

Or maybe you. I’m perfect.

Okay, maybe not perfect. But for the next few hundred words, let’s pretend that I have a handle on the topic. It remains necessary that you humour me because I could never survive a research conversation with the obsessive compulsive brian-poker from my past life.

Byegones. (I prefer this to “it is what it is”, as you may have guessed. It’s a Fishism. If you get that, you get me. Mentally, not physically. My character is already spoken-for.)

We are pros. What we do for a living is what we do almost every day. And thanks to email, zee interwebs, and your fikkin‘ Blackberry-like device, (while I use an iPhone, I do prefer a real keyboard. I like how it clicks. It had substance. I’m a tactile kind of guy.), we do what we do far earlier in the day until far later in the day. It’s the way of the world. It is what…nawww, that’s too easy. So I often question what we we, or maybe you, question those things in which we (you?) are most confident. What makes us go from presenting an idea, a plan, a pitch with confidence to constantly rehashing the presentation, conversation, adulation (hey, it rhymes like an REM song) in an almost obsessive manner? Do I hear ‘ledge walking’ coming from your brain? Do we replay our ideas in an effort to convince ourself that we said the right things, made the right moves, presented the right material – used right instead of correct, correctly – so that we eventually give ourself a ‘job well done‘ pat on the back?

Or are we, as a species, a sucker for self-inflicted punishment and denial.

Oh my GHAD. Are we all Catholic?

<Albert, now in third person, returns after a short interlude. He had to get a drink after that moment.>

We are successful. Unless you run your business out of the local library (if you do, and I’m not one to judge – we all need inspiration – thank you for paying your dues and supporting one of the last government run agencies supporting and promoting literacy in the Western World), you have a computer, possibly a phone and internet connection and that, for the purpose of today’s demonstration, will serve a representation of some modicum of success. Thusly, your past experiences have brought you to this point in time when you are actually researching career ideas, insight, and opinion. So why are we worrying about what is to come? Are you financially overextended? I think there’s a special Chapter for that matter, and if it has come to that, you should be working on documents and an exit strategy, and not reading the foolishness I write, and if it hasn’t come to that, then you are still in business. Okay, it’s not all foolishness that I write. So stop worrying about things you can’t change. Focus on the goals you have set and be the successful professional you really know your clients, employers, and colleagues  know you to be.

My retired housing industry consultant friend, Bryan, always talks about perceived image. How it looks matters in business. (reread that if you must. It took a few passes for it to make sense to me) If you look busy, act busy, and perform like you are busy (but never too busy for those who matter – like paying customers or your employer) you’ll be busy and successful. It’s why my clients hire my company www.greatcreative.com (plug) to update their blogs – they’re too busy being busy. So I do it. And because I write for a living, so I have a small handle on things in that literary category. Anyway, I do it because that’s what the consultant told me works. And when the consultant speaks, or writes, or pontificates, it is always worth hearing. Even if his mouth was full of pancakes. (He’s retired. He likes IHOP.)

And like the advice of countless others, I’ll offer you my little titbit (yes, it is a “titbit”, not a “tid-bit”. There’s no such thing as a tid, or any bit of it):

When you find yourself standing at the intersection of Determination and Despair, look over to your left and I’ll be sitting at the corner cafe (well, I may not be, but someone will) sipping on a coffee, a book on the table (hopefully one of mine) and I’ll (or that someone) be giving you a knowing nod. And then you’ll wonder what in life could be worse than taking advice from that guy?

And then you’ll know that like any intersection in your travels, commute, or life, you eventually pick a direction and move on.

Moving on, I like to think, is a great thing to do when you are focused on the negative things in life.

Around some corner from Determination and Despair, is Success and Achievement.

Yup. This smells like self-help.

Hope it helps. Or in the very least, amuses.

 

Albert Berkshire is a writer, producer and voice actor. He writes for a living, and sometimes, to get the cobwebs out of his creative head. Currently, he lives, writes, plays, and consults for clients on Canada’s West Coast. Giving clients and friends advice, or something to consider, has helped make his company, GreatCreative.Com, successful. To read about his professional side, visit www.greatcreative.com. And for a much shorter, and less frequent rambling, follow Albert on Twitter @albertberkshire. 

– by Albert Berkshire

I get hung up on things. It’s a curse. Or perhaps just a quirk. It can be overwhelming in person, and exhausting in the written sense, but when I get high-centered on a subject, I have trouble letting it go until I either rant, vent, or fall asleep.

We creatives are a tiring lot.

Recently, a person who, knowingly or not, often helps fuel my creativity directed my attention to an article in the Harvard Business Review. Despite being in the advertising and marketing business – and knowing full well that I should be in touch with all and anything written about business – I tend to shy away from some publications do to an apprehension of drowning my creativity with fact and fear…

…or stupidity and disrespect.

In general, I have a few simple rules. I’ve written in the past that I don’t discuss religion or politics. This Albert Rule is more about respecting the lifestyle and ideologies of others than it is keeping my blood pressure in check (117 over 69, usually. I’m pretty relaxed and not easily excited – unless there’s Vodka). My rules work for me. They keep me safe and serve to not offend most people. I like it that way. See? Simple man. Simple rules.

The article that forces me to break my rules and will now send me into a spin can be found at the Harvard Business Review website. I am not responsible for anything on that external site, nor will I offer a link for the foolishness I read, but I will tell you it was titled “To Inspire Innovation, Get a Muse”. It was written by Michael Schrage.

Sidebar: The word “rage” appears in his last name. How appropriate, ‘cause I’m about to rage against his machine.

The article, in short, suggests that a company should budget to hire a Muse. He wrote, “After all, executives hire coaches, why shouldn’t creative innovators budget time and resources for a muse or two?”

A “muse or two”?

The fact that he wrote this should have made him stop dead in his tracks and say, “Do I really want to go down this road?” Or better yet, “Where did I leave my brain last night?”

I’m sure that Albert Berkshire spiking the sphygmomanometer to about 190 over 85 matters little to him. Or maybe you. But there is something fundamentally wrong with that suggestion. And if you’ll humour me, I’ll explain why this is a bad thing to suggest to desperate-for-a-profit companies and individuals.

First, it is the religious factor. A muse is a sanctity. In Greek Mythology, a Muse was regarded as the inspirer of learning and the arts, especially of poetry and music. Such an influence was considered a goddess or adored woman. A muse is so very special and rare to a Creative (innovator or otherwise) that is cannot simply be categorized as a line item on an expense report. To do so is to invite the ire of many, the understanding of few, and to have your board of directors ask you, “Is that what you call your hooker these days?”

It’s wrong. It is disrespectful. It is an abomination of the value and importance, actual and historical, of the Muse.

Secondly, a Muse is not a profit centre. This premise (in the article) is a feeble attempt to take a valued and admired individual – the Muse – and turn he or she into a profit centre. It is a silly juxtaposition for the purpose of creating a catchy name for an age old thing – a mentor. Neither, in my mind, are remotely close in description or purpose.

A mentor leads and teaches in a formulated way based on rationale and experience. And any company or business professional would be well advised to seek out the advice, guidance, influence, and expertise of a mentor, business coach, or consultant. These individuals are the Sean Luces and the Jeffery Gitomers of the world. They are the mentors and advisors who analyze, dissect, and focus your company with a plan specific to your goals and needs. They, in effect, lead you in a specific direction.

A Muse inspires in ways that cannot be rightly explained – nor should they have to be explained. They just “do”. And they just “are”. A Muse is in the mind and heart of the Creative. There is no logical road map. There is no schedule or format for their contribution – it is always there.

Unlike a mentor, or a consultant, whom you choose; a Muse chooses you. No one looks at a person and says, “I like this one. This one will be my muse.”  That’s just not how it happens.  A connection, an understanding, a spark ignites the Creative-Muse relationship.  And this isn’t something that is sexual or romantic. I suppose it could be, and certainly has been portrayed that was in mythical, fictional, or historical accounts of creative greats like Monet, Mozart, Shakespeare, Alobar, or countless others who have been romanticized by Hollywood and or literature, but there simply aren’t any parameters for this type of connection.

A muse is a very sacred individual. And I say individual in an effort to exhort my belief that it is a person who is a Muse. My cat does things that makes me laugh, perhaps because I anthropomorphize all animals for the humour of it, but the old girl doesn’t inspire me to write. She simply sits here looking cute…or asleep. A landscape might evoke a specific emotion or sentimentality for me, but it does not fuel my creativity. A person, with whom I have an unexplainable connection – who understands me in a way that no other could possibly understand my mind, or my heart, or both – inspires me. That person is a Muse in its most pure fashion and definition. And male or female or somewhere in between is neither relevant nor open to disclosure, because a Muse is a private part of the Creative.

In fact, now that I think more about it, I would suggest a Muse may not even know this is who they have become to the Creative. Perhaps explaining to a Muse his or her role and value might put undue pressure on the individual, causing the person to act out of character, or feel the need to do something special or specific in an effort to assist the Creative. That, in itself, would defeat the purpose…and circumvent the connection that joined the two in the first place. It may even irreparably damage the bond. For while a Muse may unknowingly imprint oneself onto the Creative, the Creative would be best served not to cloud the mind of the Muse for fear of forcing a change in the naturally occurring inspirational behavior. (There’s an annoying acronym in there somewhere.)

In other words, you were given a gift. Shhhhhh…shut up and tell no one.

The author in the article that drove my blood pressure through the roof, and oddly left me speechless on the topic for more than a week (no easy feat), is effectively suggesting that I can walk down the hall, grab a person who fits in my budget, and bring he or she or shim home so that my buddies to can look the individual over in hopes of finding some inspiration.

That’s a HOOKER.  I’ll pass.

You can’t hire someone to inspire you any more than you can hire someone to love you.  It either happens or it does not. There is no middle ground. The Creative-Muse connection is as rare as a soulmate, as precious as a non-conflict diamond, and should a Creative be so fortunate as to be found by their Muse, the Creative (innovator or otherwise) is among the fortunate few to enjoy by default the one thing that separates the great from the forgotten.

Get a Muse? Get a clue!

When it becomes a job about profit, it is no longer about a passion for creativity.  To me, the article represented the author’s terrible misunderstanding of the value of a Muse to a Creative.  He should stick to 1s and 0s. The tangibles for which a company can actually pay, and see some measurable return on investment.

The influence of a Muse, is priceless, immeasurable…and precious.

And I know this for a fact…because I have listened to Mozart’s Divertimento in D countless times.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Albert Berkshire is a writer, producer and voice actor. He lives, writes, plays, and consults for clients on Canada’s West Coast. In his lifetime, he’s explained to only two people when and how he does his best writing – a fellow writer; and a person who should not feel undue pressure to act out of character. He also believes the word Muse is rightly deserving of a capital “M”. Finding the right words to express the right message has helped make his company, GreatCreative.Com, successful. For a much shorter, and less frequent rambling, follow Albert on Twitter @albertberkshire.  

 

This is not the cooking channel.

I’m not a fan of predictability.  I don’t know many who are fans.  In fact, predictable equals boring in my world.  I can’t watch a murder mystery with my mother because she has it solved before the murder is committed.  That’s not the experience I want.  I want to be pleasantly surprised.  Even taken aback.  I appreciate that which is somewhat out of character.  I like things to be unexpected.  Those are the best outcomes.  And I am certain this Notion Locomotive runs contrary to the standard business world.

If you like to know how a movie will end, before you watch it, you may not be comfortable with the cubicle in which my brain is presently parked.

In the advertising world, the one from which you are bombarded with 5000-plus messages a day (I’d apologize, but it’s a living), we play around with a little thing called Broca. It’s the area of the human brain that anticipates and ignores the predictable.

Sidebar Quickie: I know someone who would argue, possibly quite successfully, that men have a more developed Broca area than women because we are able to tune out predictable messages like, “You left the toilet seat up again!” – and so forth. 

Byegones.

In the process of delivering advertising messages – be that audible, visual, or neither – the latter being a long stare into the eyes completed with a “blink blink” (ask me something truly ridiculous and that will be my response) – we strive to create a message that will hold your attention beyond your natural urge to change the channel, continue with your conversation, or pay attention to the road.  Fell free to offer the “blink blink” for the latter. While it may be absurd to read, I have, in the past, worked with clients who couldn’t care less if you crash, as long as their message compels you to buy their product after you finish your post-accident interview and sign off on the police report. (Do we sign off on police reports, or is that just fiction on the instruction box in the living room?)

Broca comes into play when we creatives secure a client who is capable of thinking outside the box, and allows us to use word combinations and/or phrases that defy predictability.

Without going into the whole Wikiscience of it all (yawn), I consider it a valid and necessary point to make that the whole purpose of advertising is to influence the grey matter in the prefrontal cortex (oddly named considering it is at the back of the brain). That’s where you find all the buttons and control knobs for emotion, planning and judgment (and likely poor judgment, lack of judgment and the increasingly popular complete lack of judgment).  To get there visually, you have to pass through Broca’s territory. Even more frustrating is that the ear is parked next to the Broca region…so there are essentially no shortcuts around Mr. Broca to the “I gotta own that now” planning centre.

So you have to do a little dance, ante up some foreplay, or at least buy Mr. Broca a drink or six.  And it works when you do it right.  When I look back at my favourite campaigns (my campaigns) it was the application of the Broca Method (for want of a better descriptor) that made it so memorable.  I once sang (quite terribly, I might add) about “Sheepskin Boutique” – that campaign ran every Christmas for seven years.  I’ve done commercials for liquor stores that convinced me to go buy wine. (Okay, that’s not a stretch.)  And still to this day, my favourite of all time was a commercial that talked little about product, and mostly about love.  Actually, two of those campaigns were narrated by the Canadian actor Michael Richard Dobson which confirms that a great message requires a brilliant delivery…and Michael, being a master of timing (and a great voice & character actor) created a turnpike bypass that cut through the centre of Broca-ville.

These creative moments of delivery come from the most unexpected places.  And maybe that’s the beauty of Broca.  My favourite recent example is the famous Washington State Lottery commercial called “Every Bird Should Fly” – created by Publicis Seattle.  And even though I’ve seen it 20 or 30 times, and can now predict the ending, it never gets old, because it is art.  It entertains.  It says something other than, “Buy a ticket. Never work again.”  It says something my brain doesn’t want to turn off, and it offers something for which we all yearn – hope.

Much like my commercial campaign selling “love”.

I never saw the message coming.  The truest form of Broca I’ve seen in years.   And then on Sunday I was riding up the chairlift at Big White Ski Resort.  On the six-pack were a mom, four kids and me (not my kids – mine have fur, sleep a lot, and don’t like snow).  These kids were all talking about skiing, and snow, and video games, and playing – as, I assume, all eight or nine year olds do – and then one girl looked up into the sky and said to no one in particular:

“I always thought the mountains were ice cream cones. And the snow on them was vanilla ice cream. And I thought I would have a different birthday every year…and that the moon was staring back at me.”

Art Linkletter, RIP.

The little girl sold me on rediscovering the innocence of my long past childhood without ever mentioning childhood.  In exactly the same way, Jeff Siegel of Publicis Seattle sold me on winning the lottery without ever suggesting I buy a ticket.  They bypassed the Hominid Objection Centre, passed go, and collected two hundred dollars…or at least peaked my interest enough that I felt compelled to learn more.

They did what every advertiser should do.  Make me, the consumer, think about how their product fits into my life, and convince me I can’t live without it.

I want that shiny thing of great value in my life.

On the other hand, sometimes the most straightforward message using simple words is all you need.

“Our shit is cheap. Come and get it.”

There, you’ve just trained your client to wait for you to discount your stuff, completely removing any value from its existence and thusly dooming your business to the perpetual cycle of “Sale”, followed by another “Sale”…and then another “Sale”.

Blink Blink.

The smoked gouda was melted over curry-sprinkled free-range, vegetarian-fed eggs. Cracked black pepper danced across the heaving yolks. On lightly toasted flax flour bread sat perfectly ripe and thinly-sliced avocado. The strangers, who all lived in different neighbourhoods in Kitchenland, came together as a community in concert to create a brilliant breakfast sandwich.  The flavour combinations were completely … unexpected.

If only my taste buds were clients.

If only my childhood never ended.

If only Michael Richard Dobson narrated recipes.

Waterfront Wines – A Meal

Waterfront Wines – A Bottle

Jason Goldsmiths – Reliability

Jason Goldsmiths – Quality

Albert Berkshire is a writer, producer and voice actor. He lives, writes, plays, and consults with his clients around North America from Canada’s West Coast. And while he rarely shares his work, because unoriginal people steal, he does like to dig through the memory vault from time to time. It reminds him that the things from then, are still important now. It also helps keep him motivated, further helping to continue the success of his company, GreatCreative.Com. For a much shorter, and less frequent rambling, follow Albert on Twitter @albertberkshire.