“The First Time I Got Paid For It …”
So, I’d like to share an update on my first professional presentation.
Several months ago, I shared with several friends at Toastmasters that I was interested in professional speaking. As both friends and mentors, they encouraged me, and within two weeks I had an email in my box from the Indian Trails Public Library in Wheeling.
The library was interested in a presentation on “active listening,” and I’d been recommended. Would I be interested? Well, certainly! Of course, there’s the question of what exactly “active listening” meant, but we were months away from the presentation – and it sounded like a skill I’d like to cultivate regardless.
As it turns out, I was already an accomplished active listener. I just wasn’t aware that it had a name. At its most basic, active listening requires us to listen to understand, rather than listening just enough to form an intelligent reply. I found a great deal of information online about the roots and history of the skill, what steps were recommended, and how individuals can become more effective.
From those multiple sources and my own experience, I pulled together a script of around 4,750 words over the course of a week. Based on research, that should take about an hour – the agreed-upon time for a speech. When I rehearsed the speech as written a few times, it came in closer to 50 minutes, so I re-worked some sections, moved some pieces around, and finished preparation over a month in advance.
As the deadline grew closer, I became more nervous. It was obvious that I wasn’t going to be word-for-word with the speech, but I was nailed at some level to the words I’d so carefully crafted. I remembered the last long-form speech I gave, in which I repeatedly returned to my notes and – at least to my mind – appeared less prepared for it.
So I decided to take a different track. I went through the speech as written and distilled it into a two-sided list of bullet points, each with a quick reminder of the topic I wanted to cover. I also pulled four of the most important paragraphs and put them as “pull quotes” on a separate sheet of paper, then noted on the bullet points where I should quote those – and worked to memorize just those four.
Based on the topic – active listening – I made a point of not creating any visual presentations. I wanted to show how powerful the art of listening is, when there are fewer distractions between yourself and the person speaking. Finally, I ran off a one-sheet page for people to take home, listing the most important aspects of the speech.
I arrived about 40 minutes early, not uncommon for a guy who gets lost easily, so I could get some time with the admins and review the room. We figured out together how to lower the shades, adjust the temperature, and she informed me of a wrinkle I hadn’t known – most of those signed up were not born here, and English was their second language.
This is what could be called a curve ball. Fortunately, I work with several ESL folks at the dayjobbery, and am comfortable watching my speech for idioms. Watching my vocabulary is trickier, but hey, who doesn’t love a challenge?
As it turns out, we had 26 people signed up, of whom 10 arrived. That’s not a disappointment – ten people in a theatre hall is sad, but ten people in a conference room is okay. It allowed a bit more intimacy, and allowed me to take more questions that I might otherwise.
As it turns out, I had no trouble making the 60 minute mark. In fact, I was able to cut a few of the fluffier moments in the speech, which I think added value overall. We had a 30-minute question and answer period, in which I provided more individual feedback and recommendations. I was careful to preface those with “It’s my opinion,” or “When this comes up, I will usually …” rather than passing it off as carefully researched work.
In the end, I believe it went well! Everyone stayed until the end, and a few thanked me personally, which is nice. My library contact and I spoke for a while and she had pleasant things to say in my feedback form. We’ll be talking again about future work, and I enthusiastically agreed that she could pass my name around the library districts.
In the end, it was a modest start, but a good one! I’m pleased with the result and with look forward to speaking more frequently in the future.
004: This Year’s Greatest Experience
“What experience from this past year do you appreciate the most?”
For the past 11 months, I have served as an Area Director for the Toastmasters organization. It has been, by turns, fulfilling and frustrating, rewarding and … really, really difficult.
In terms of appreciation, however, it’s hard to beat this experience.
Taking on this position inspired me to take on greater challenges in the office, and in other spheres of my personal life. I have said “yes!” with enthusiasm to several opportunities which I would have hesitated to accept in the past, even when I was unsure of my capacity to execute them with perfection.
I have met such a large group of warm and wonderful people, all of whom are invested in improving their skills and being of service to a larger cause. They come from all over the Chicagoland area, and when the District is split between North and South I will miss seeing several of them, but will rest well knowing that they are continuing their good work in another sphere. I consider many of these people friends, and several of them as inspirations.
I’ve learned a great deal about myself and have improved my skillset as a leader. While I could have done more – and I will always feel I could have done more – I have certainly grown in terms of dealing with challenges and setbacks, in terms of long-range planning and in dealing with sometimes difficult personalities.
I no longer fire off immediate responses to questions which can be set aside until more important matters are attended to. I have learned to keep my hands off those projects and clubs which are running well, relinquishing control and delegating authority to the proper individuals. I have also learned how to most effectively step in to offer assistance when it is needed.
At some level, too, I have learned to lose more gracefully. In this year, not all my efforts have borne fruit. Some clubs into which I put my time and energy have decided to discontinue their charters, and ideas I advanced have been turned away by others. I have yet to be able to find a replacement for my position, which is a source of some vexation.
Still, I do not take these as slights on myself or on my capabilities. Instead, they are lessons in the famed serenity prayer, choices made by others which are beyond my actual control.
For that knowledge alone, along with many other insights and opportunities, I can truly say that I have appreciated this challenge.
I can also say, however, that I will not pick these reins up again lightly. I enjoy crafting words and phrases, speaking in public and sharing my knowledge with others. The administration and oversight of others is something I can now gracefully relinquish into hands which are unknown to me, but which I am certain will be up to the task.
On Smaller Crowds
One of my dear friends used to be a stand-up comedian, who tells this story about the late, great Redd Foxx: Apparently for one of his Las Vegas shows, Redd strutted onto stage to the Sanford and Son theme song. He peered out into the room, spat, and said, “I ain’t doing a show for five white people,” and walked offstage … with the band still playing him off.
A few years ago, a Shakespearean company came to my home town. They were to perform Julius Caesar, one of the shows I haven’t seen often; and I was super excited to take it in.
Unfortunately, on top of the fact that small-town Illinois isn’t much of a Shakespeare hub, the show was inexplicably slated for a Sunday matinee. As a result, the audience was myself, my wife, and I believe two other couples in a theatre that seats over 700. The curtain went up, and I could see – and feel – the reaction of the performers.
Regardless, they swung into action, and put on a show that felt as though they were treading the Globe.
You’ve got a choice to make when you look out on a disappointing audience. Whether you’re a musician or a public speaker, an actor or on a book tour, you have a choice to make. You can mope about the results and deliver a lackluster, half-hearted demonstration that will leave the few people in your audience disappointed and unlikely ever to return, or you can remember why you’re here in the first place. To entertain or inform, to educate or delight, no matter the size of the crowd.
Note that I’m hardly perfect at this. It’s difficult to put your whole heart into something and get so little energy back for it. I work at it, though, because in a way a smaller crowd can also be liberating.
You can take chances with your style and delivery that you might not want to try on a larger, more review-focused crowd. You can loosen up and interact more individually with the people who came to see you. You can pay them exactly as much attention as they deserve – they, the people to whom this performance and appearance really meant something.
It’s important to remember that. We’re owed no attention at all. Sometimes the difference between us and the gentleman on the street corner with a tinfoil hat is only in the quality of our writing and delivery, and if anyone has stopped to give us the gift of their time, then the least we can do is give them the gift of our best.
Making Room for Others
We return, sadly, to the “big fish” dilemma. Will you allow me a moment, and offer advice?
A number of things went really well today. Among them, I had a coworker come up after I ran my first 100+ person meeting to say, “You’ve convinced me to join Toastmasters. I want to speak like you.” Fantastic! I tell him I’ve also got four years of theatre training and years of performing, but this is the easiest entrance for him.
At the TM meeting, a couple of the young guys come to ask for advice. Again, fantastic! Let me help you become a better speaker. I’ll review scripts, forward articles, critique, whatever!
But one anonymous comment comes through after I speak: “Once again, Ivan shows he’s too good for us.”
“Oh,” I think, crestfallen, “this poor person. It must suck to feel that way. Maybe I ought to stop giving speeches to the group. I don’t want to discourage anyone.”
Fortunately, I stop to think. I LIKE speaking. It’s why I joined. It’s why I’ve applied more energy to meeting these goals than anything since finishing the Gentleman Ghouls trilogy, or getting in shape. Why should I stop doing what I love to make this person more comfortable?
“Because showing compassion to their feelings is the right thing to do.”
Well … is it? It’s what Ivan tends to do, but is it the right thing to do?
I’m honestly torn by this. I could stop speaking at my main club and focus on the educational and administrative parts of that club, while speaking at the sister club and others in the area. That would still let me reach my goals, but would also mean potentially pushing someone else out into the cold, in addition to taking up speech space the other clubs sorely need.
I could just quit speaking for a while. I’ve made a huge amount of headway already, and the feedback I get now is minor. I could focus on the leadership portions. By which I mean, the portions that hold less interest to me, but which need to be checked off in order to achieve the goal.
Despite all the evidence that many people want me to speak and find my work inspiring, inconveniencing or hurting one person seems to throw all that praise out the window. I realize I’m giving this anonymous person too much power over my decisions – but to laugh it off, throw their criticism away, and keep doing what I love seems so very selfish.
On the other hand, there are people who want to learn from me. I do no good to them by surrendering to this commenter.
I lay aside the gift with which I wish to serve people.
Why are the needs and insecurities of this one person so important to me, even when I don’t know who they are?
Adapting a Fable
I delivered an original speech yesterday. Well, not completely original, and not completely a speech.
The Storytelling manual is an interesting bit in Toastmasters. Like Interpretive Reading, it’s one of those which is right up my alley but which feels a bit like cheating. These aren’t speeches so much as solo performances, which I’ve already got plenty of training in. In fact, one of the commenters yesterday pointed out my “unfair advantage as an actor,” which I understand. I’m doing this manual as what they’d call a quick win in the business world, a way to progress swiftly through the checklist to the next level of the organization.
Project Three is “The Moral of the Story,” which asks you to either write an original story with a moral lesson at the end, or to adapt an existing fable into a new story. I decided to go with the second option, again, working toward that quick win.
There were a few comments that stuck out to me both as a speaker and a writer.
- “Maybe a bit too dramatic / Try a more natural mode of speaking.” Well, guilty as charged. As a fan of Kipling (his writing, not his imperialism), I used many of his tricks from Just So Stories, which makes the language seem a little archaic. I personally enjoy that stylistic difference and chose to make use of it, but I can understand others can find it off-putting. In terms of the performance, I chose to deliver it as though I were speaking to a room of children – since lecturing adults on morality is something I’m trying to step away from in my personal and public lives. Perhaps I should have made that clear at the outset. Either way, the drama was a choice I made, so it’s good to have the comments.
- “The mother’s really just a plot device.” Argh, argh, argh. True. Excellent point. While I’m working toward simplicity in a five-minute story, that shouldn’t reduce any of the characters to mere devices. And of course, it’s the mother who gets the short end of the stick, because I’m writing automatically as a man and not being as attentive as I should be. I’m embarrassed by this comment and ashamed of its accuracy, but I can take it as a reminder to watch more closely next time.
- “Dogs can’t talk. That was a big surprise, but it gave the moral greater impact.” I … okay, I don’t know what to tell you about this one. It’s a fable, of course animals can talk. That’s a staple of the genre. Happy accident that you felt it punched up the purpose, but an accident nevertheless.
- “I was so happy to see this bratty kid get his comeuppance.” I didn’t think I’d written the little boy as a brat, per se. Just as a little boy, with the tendencies I’ve observed in all little kids. They cry and cajole when they want something, and things don’t hold their interest very long when they involve work. Is that bratty? I’d call it human nature, but I wonder if this says more about my thoughts as a writer or the commenter’s experience as a listener and mother.
A couple things for me to remember. It’s always good to get feedback like this, that I can actually work on. Sometimes the comments are too positive when I do well, which is obviously nice, but doesn’t help anything except my ego.
The story was adapted from “The Goatherd and His Wild Goats,” one of the Aesop stories I’d never heard before looking for one to adapt; and I’ve included the story below.
The Mother, Her Child, and His Two Lost Dogs
Once upon a time there was a woman named Claire who lived in this very town, and this woman had a little boy, and because of this we will call her Mother Claire and we will call her little boy Caleb, for that was Caleb’s name.
Like all little boys, Caleb was sometimes quiet and sometimes he was loud, and never was he louder than on those occasions when he wanted something, and never EVER was he louder than on those occasions when he wanted something which Mother Claire would keep from him. And like all little boys, one of the things Caleb wanted more than anything in the world was a puppy to call his own.
And after asking and pleading and crying and shrieking for the better part of a month, like many parents, Mother Claire became so tired and worn out from the noise that one day she brought home a puppy for Caleb, and they named that puppy Buddy because Buddy is a very good name for a puppy.
Now Caleb had promised to take very good care of Buddy, and so he did – for a little time. He kept Buddy in his bed at night to keep him warm, and he fed Buddy the very nicest of scraps from his table, and he walked Buddy proudly around the block, and he even picked up the things which Buddy left behind, which I will not talk about because I can see by the way you smile that you know what I mean.
But after a while picking up after Buddy seemed like a nasty thing to do, and so Caleb stopped doing it, and Mother Claire had to pick up where Caleb left off. And after a while walking Buddy became a chore, and so Caleb stopped doing it, and Mother Claire had to walk far around the block before and after she went to work.
And after a while Buddy became roly-poly and round, and so Caleb called him Fatty and stopped the feeding of scraps, and Buddy got so big that Caleb had no more room in his little bed and he made Buddy sleep on the hard floor.
Then one evening in the winter – and you know how cold winter gets, my loves – one winter Caleb heard a scratching and a whining at the door, and he opened it up, and there was a little lost puppy who was long and lean and floppy-eared and so much more handsome than Fatty Buddy.
Caleb felt very sorry for the new little puppy, and he showed Mother Claire how handsome and young and friendly the new puppy was, and he took the puppy into his room, fed him actual pepperoni (which is the finest of snacks for a puppy), and tucked him up in his own bed sheets to warm him and make him a friend.
And Mother Claire saw this, and she saw that Caleb liked the new puppy best, and so she called a friend who lived on a big farm and she told him to come and he could have Buddy for his own. And Caleb said that was just fine, for the new puppy was so much more to his liking.
Now the next morning, when the snow had stopped and the sun was out and the day was fine, Caleb opened the door to walk his new best friend. But! The new puppy was much smaller than Buddy, and he slipped easily through the leash and easily through the door and ran down the street.
Caleb called after him, “But wait! Come back! You bad dog! You ungrateful dog! Didn’t I treat you better than my own Buddy?”
And the puppy called back, saying “You did, and that is why I will not stay! Because if I stay with you, one day I will be an old friend, and you will throw me aside like you did Poor Old Buddy for a new friend!” And the puppy ran off into the wide world, never to be seen again.
And as for Caleb, he grew into a man.
But Mother Claire never again brought him home a puppy.