There are some people whose marketing is a force of nature.

Their personalities are so strong and clear in everything they do that they sweep all before them. There’s no doubt who their audience is.  Everyone either loves them or hates them.  And both the love and the hate create a buzz around them.  They arrive on the scene as if out of nowhere and appear to achieve instant, overnight success.

For those of us who don’t have that type of personality, it can feel a tad frustrating.  You might be naturally more introverted – or you might just feel that you don’t want to be quite as brazen and in-your-face as some people are.  Whatever it is, you watch these people as they enjoy a level of success you’d kill for, and wish you had some of that secret sauce.

If it sounds like I’m speaking from a certain amount of experience, well, yeah.  Envy has come to roost in my office on more than a few occasions.  “Why can’t I do that? Why can’t I have dozens and hundreds of comments on my blog?  Why can’t I…”  And so on.

Have you ever been there? 

Of course, the reality is, those people worked very hard to get where they are.  They didn’t actually just appear out of nowhere; they climbed up to that place just like anyone else.  They had their own moments of struggle and doubt and fear.  And they suffer the consequences of being hated – look at some of those dozens and hundreds of comments on their blogs, and you’ll see plenty of angry disagreement and nastiness.

If you’re thinking you’d love to have problems like that, well, yeah.  I understand that, too.

The thing is, though, it’s got to be real. 

It’s obvious, of course, when I say you can’t decide to be “just like so-and-so,” but you’d be surprised how many people try it.  For instance, a terrific web designer I know (Allie Rice at alliecreative.com) reports that she often has clients who say, “I want my site to look just like …” 

Oscar Wilde said, “Be yourself.  Everyone else is already taken.”   It’s annoyingly obvious.  And it’s vulnerable and scary.

However, the further I go along my own path of being in business, becoming vitally connected to what I do and why I do it, the more I discover that it’s essential.  When I show up as me, I may not feel as if I’m anywhere near the force of nature some people are.  But I have a lot more fun and a lot more success.

And I’m very grateful for my clients and my fans – because the reality is, I do have people who love me and my work. 

You do too.

Last week I wrote about the second-hardest thing in networking: following up.

If you’ll recall, I mentioned how only about 7% of people who say they’re going to follow up actually do follow up. 

I’ve continued testing that statistic.  I’ve talked with people about it (they’re universally surprised – “Only 7%?  really?”), and I’ve then given them a good reason to follow up with me.

Does it surprise you to learn that there’s absolutely no change to the statistic?  It’s still at about 7%.  Or less.   Pretty funny.  I thought I’d get at least 10%.

The good news is, if you DO follow up, you’re immediately at a huge advantage.  Whether you’re looking for a new client, a job, or just making connections, your following up means you’re part of a very select, very special minority. 

So how do you make following up easy?

On my last post, Alistair commented that he thinks one reason people don’t follow up is because they don’t view it as a separate step.  That’s a great observation, and spot on target. 

Schedule time in your calendar for follow-up

It can be as simple as that.  The day after an event, block out an hour for follow-up activities.  If you don’t need an hour (maybe you only met one person you want to connect with), great – it’s a gift of extra time in your day, yippee.

Promise people something

One of the biggest reasons people don’t follow up is because they have no reason to do so.  Without a reason, they waffle on sitting down to write the email or pick up the phone.  It’s hard to do.  In some ways, it’s even worse than making cold calls.  At least with cold calls (or cold emails) the person you’re trying to reach has a good reason for ignoring you – a reason that doesn’t have anything to do with you personally. 

But if you meet someone at an event and then email or call them a day or two later, and they never respond - it feels more like a personal rejection.

By promising to send something – an article they might be interested in, a link to a website or blog they’d find useful, whatever it might be – you now have a reason to be emailing or calling.  Not just any reason, either:  a reason based in your generosity.  You’re giving them something.   That makes it a LOT easier.

Not so incidentally, it also makes it easier for the person you’re following up with to respond back, even if just to say “thanks.” 

Make a concrete suggestion

The whole point of following up is to nurture the connection you began forming when you met. 

If the follow-up just says, “Hey, nice meeting you,” there’s not much nurturing going on, and not much point in bothering.

If this is someone you want to know better – and if it’s not, then why are you bothering? – it’s up to you to suggest a next step.  Usually, that’s to meet for coffee or lunch.  But don’t just say, “I’d like to get together for coffee sometime.”    That’s wishy-washy, and invites an equally wishy-washy answer.

Instead, try, “I’d like to continue our conversation over coffee.  How does next Tuesday at 3:00 sound?  Do you know any good places to meet?”

When you make a specific suggestion, the other person is far more likely to respond.  Even if she says “no,” she might offer an alternative time, date, or place. 

Other ideas?

What do you do as part of your follow-up process?

What stops you from following up?

If these ideas were useful, there are a lot more in my networking workbook-and-audio package. In fact, it’s full of practical material – exercises and information – about all aspects of networking, from why it feels so hard (and how to make it easier), to how to get very, very strategic about picking events to attend. Take a look!

I went to a networking event last Wednesday evening.  I spoke with various people I know, plus a few who were new to me.

Several of them said they’d be in touch with me about things I can help them with – things they need or want.

One of them has followed up.  That’s actually a surprisingly high number.  In the networking class I teach (and the networking workbook/audio program I offer), we talk about how only about 7% of people who say they’re going to follow up actually do.

Seven percent!

That’s crazy.  And yet, it’s absolutely my experience.

I’ve met job-seekers whom I offered to introduce to someone who absolutely could help them.  I’ve offered people free passes to events they wanted to go to.  Friends have told me of saying, “Call me – I want to hire you!” to people they’ve met.

And none of those people ever followed up.

Following up is the second-hardest part of networking

It’s bad enough to have to show up, all perky and articulate, in a roomful of strangers.  (Especially if you’re an introvert like me!)

But then you get home and you have to sort through a pile of business cards, remember which belonged to whom, and … follow up.  Pick up the phone, write the email. 

It’s a second round of vulnerability.  And you’re not prepared for it.  

You prepared yourself to get to the event.  And then you relaxed.  You didn’t prepare yourself for the second whammy of having to follow up with all those nice strangers you met.

In some ways, it’s even more vulnerable.  Sure, walking into a roomful of strangers can feel just a tad nervewracking.  But there’s something more at stake when you’re reaching out to a single individual, someone you don’t know, and asking them for something.  (And you are asking – even if just for the courtesy of a reply, a few minutes of their time.)

At the risk of sounding like a certain athletic-shoe company … just do it.

You’ll stand out, because you’ll be one of that 7%. 

And honestly, if you don’t follow up, you might just as well stay home in the first place.

In my next post, I’ll cover a couple of ways to make it easier to follow up.  (You can find that post here.)

Between now and then – why not pick one person you meant to follow up with – and then pick up the phone?

One of the many things I find delightful about living in Southern California, as opposed to the New York/New Jersey area from which I migrated eleven years ago, is the wildlife.

Jewels-on-wings called hummingbirds, year-round visitors to the feeders outside my windows.  Black-and-white, jauntily crested black-capped phoebes, arial acrobats in search of their buggy breakfast.  Tufted titmice, happy flocks of tiny taupe birds that chatter and insect-munch their way counter-clockwise through my yard.

Gracefully sinuous foot-long tree-climbing lizards in the acacia outside my office window.  Bright yellow Lone Ranger-masked warblers poking curiously at the undersides of leaves.  Orioles grappling with the slippery glass of the hummingbird feeder, trying to get their share of the nectar.  Red-winged blackbirds, always in groups, voracious and skittery at the birdseed feeder.  Brilliant yellow goldfinches, hanging upside-down and squeezing the oil out of thistle seeds.

In the desert, I’ve seen kangaroo rats, tiny little big-eared, fluffy-tailed creatures with oversized hindquarters.  Scorpions, which, thank you, I’ll view from a distance, but fascinating nonetheless.  Kit fox, smaller than your average cat, with ENORMOUS ears, lurking just out of firelight-range, ever the canid opportunists, snapping up scraps of campfire-grilled steak.  Coyote, heard not seen in the desert, wildly yipping songs, and seen not heard at home, dawn-walking as bold as you please down the sidewalks of my development. 

Road runners, alert long-legged birds quick to pounce on a lizardy lunch.  Hawks, red-tailed and red-shouldered, crying wild seagull-like cries overhead and perched on the lamp-posts waiting for a meal to wander by underneath.  Cooper’s hawks, a young one blundering clumsily through my yard, frustrated with the too-flexible acacia-tree branches, thinking the patio shade structure looked nice and solid – till it saw me sitting there.  (I swear I heard it think – “Oh, shit” – before it turned, aerobatically graceful, and flew away.) 

Kite, strange birds of prey, brilliant white, hovering in one place waiting for something to move and become dinner.  Inland and up in the high desert, stellar’s jays, big birds, vivid blue, brightly crested, and with the proper jaylike attitude.  Gray fox crossing the road late at night, glimpsed in my headlights.

Toads and their hundreds of toadpoles – um, tadpoles – in my lily-pond from late December well into summer – tiny little fellows with seriously outsized voices, serenading their lady-loves all night long.  Huge crab spiders, autumn web-spinners, nocturnal and beautiful.

Dolphins at dawn, especially on New Year’s morning.  Pelicans flying in stately formation, riding the air currents just above the crest of a wave.  Plovers and sandpipers, diggers in the sand; the longer-legged plovers wade, the sandpipers run hysterically up and down the beach.  Gulls of all sizes and colours, brassy and bold as gulls will ever be.

Yard-long snakes (no exaggeration) basking in spring sunlight on the sandy trails along the San Luis Rey River drainage embankments.  Lizards of all sizes and colours squirting through tiny cracks in the rock.  Gophers and ground-squirrels – please, not in my yard! – but fun to watch elsewhere.  Bats pouring out of the trees above the river drainage paths.  Crows flying east in the early morning, enough to blacken the sky overhead, and returning westwards to bed in the evening, raucous and bold in either direction. 

Two weeks ago, a bobcat, nonchalant, abbreviated tail-tip twitching, seen at midday on an easy mountain trail with a visiting New York friend.  Not so shabby.  (Said New Yorker was lamenting the lack of cell phone reception at the top of Palomar Mountain.  He subsequently got beaned on the head by an acorn from a California live-oak tree.  I think the mountain was trying to make a point.)

This afternoon, a discovery.  Mice had been visiting, chewing their way through the bags holding my soap-making supplies.   And then, going through the kitchen, I looked sideways – and there was a four-inch greenish-gray and gold lizard sitting in the middle of the room.  I’ve seen thousands of them outside; this was the first in eleven years that had actually entered the house.  Getting him out again was interesting, and a pleasant diversion from cleaning up mouse-mess.

There are those who claim that Southern California has no seasons.

People who say that generally live in places where they have to shovel snow. 

The funny thing is, there are plenty of places in Southern California where you – yes! – have to shovel snow, at least occasionally.

But it’s true.  Here along the coast, snow doesn’t happen.  Frost and ice sometimes do – I remember a few winters ago when we had sub-freezing temperatures overnight for several days.  I lost a few plants, and I distinctly remember my surprise when I was out running early in the morning.  There was ice on the sidewalk - something I hadn’t had to deal with since I moved here in 1998!

But we have distinct seasons, even though we don’t get slapped in the face with them quite the way those of you who live in areas where you have SEASONS – and have to shovel snow – do.

Right now, for instance, is Fire Season.  Two years ago, the entire county of San Diego was on fire.  Then, I had packed my car and was ready to catch the cats and leave.  The smoke outside was thick as a New England pea-souper fog.

This year, I spent a day up on Palomar Mountain a few weekends ago.  The firestorms had roared through Palomar, and it was fascinating to see the burn patterns still there two years later.  Some areas were untouched.  In some places, living trees had six-foot-high burn marks on one side.  And in other places, the trees had literally burned from the inside out, like chimneys.  The outside surface of the trees appeared untouched, but the insides were hollow, charred shells.

I’m glad to say that the 400-year-old incense cedar, and some other venerable trees, were untouched.

In any event, Fire Season is just one aspect of this time of year.

We’re coming up on what should be our rainy season.  (Hold that in your hearts, folks.  We’re praying for an El Nino year this year – rain would be a most excellent thing.)

This is our planting season.  And it’s also the time of year when many plants are setting buds.

The acacias are all putting out their wispy flower stems, which will burst into explosions of brilliant yellow in a few months.  The jade trees in pots on my patio are setting their buds.  The camellia buds are swelling. 

And the ridiculous tree in my front yard, which is essentially a weed and I’ve no idea what it is, is also setting its buds.  The bees will go bonkers over those blossoms in a few months – and then there will be gazillions of peppercorn-sized seeds, which will drop down my neck when I mow the lawn next spring.  (No, it’s not a pepper tree.)

On the other side of the world, it actually is spring.  Here, it’s fall; the days are getting darker, and I’m thinking about soups and stews instead of salads and grilling.  But though my garden is in fall mode in some ways – the fruit trees are dropping their leaves – in other ways, for this transplanted Easterner, it almost feels like spring.

We do have seasons.  You just have to pay attention.

Look, I’m an intellectual and a geek, as well as being deeply spiritual and intuitive. 

That means that I may not always be as fuzzy and warm and welcoming as some people are.  And it also means that I know what I’m talking about, I have a bazillion resources I can offer to you – and I will always, always, always meet you where you are, with total, unconditional support.

I will stand with you, beside you, shoulder to shoulder.  As long as you keep trying to move forwards – whether you think you’re succeeding or not – there is nothing you can do or say that will make me stop supporting you.

And at the same time, I’ll call you on your shit every time, whether you like it or not.  Because that’s what I’m here for – that’s what supporting you 100% means to me.

I know what it’s like to be terrified of what you’re taking on.  I know what it’s like to wonder if you’re absolutely nuts for even trying.  And I know what it’s like to think about going back to working for someone else – working for “the man” – and to feel as if you’d rather go bankrupt first.

You don’t have to go bankrupt, but you do have to get honest and clear with yourself, with who you are, with the essence of why you do what you do.

Because for someone like you – you can’t play a game with your work.  You can’t put up a slick sales page that bears little resemblance to who you are.  You can’t live with the disconnect, and neither can your customers.  They’ll smell it a mile away, and they won’t buy from you or hire you.

I’m an intuitive, and I’m a writer.  I live and breathe words and the profoundly subtle ways that words affect how someone responds to a message.  My clients are consistently awed by how quickly I can capture, in a brief phrase, key concepts about their work that they’ve struggled for months or years to express.

I can and will help you see into the heart of your fears, the beliefs that hold you back.  I can and will help you find the language you’ve struggled to find to talk about what you do – what you really do – the “deep gladness that you offer the world’s need.”  I can and will help you access the knowingness that’s available to you, the power of what’s calling you.  And I can and will help you take that message into the world, no matter how much of an introvert you may feel you are.

I’m an intellectual.  That means I’m smart and knowledgeable.  I’ve learned a lot about marketing and copywriting and networking and what it means to be in business.  Before running my own business, I was a software engineer, a systems development consultant, and a knowledge management executive.  I understand process and systems and I have a wide, wide network of resources that I tap to help my clients.

I’m a geek.  That means I’m a collector of all kinds of knowledge and trivia – and people.  If I don’t have a resource on hand, I know someone who does, or where you can find it.  I’ve got a tremendous mental warehouse of detail that I employ on your behalf.

I’m spiritual.  That means I honour a wider perspective, a bigger context.  I’m not afraid of the unknown, and I don’t have to know what’s going to happen.  I don’t have all the answers, and I’m sure that answers are available when you and I open to possibility with curiosity and a willingness to be surprised.  I know that you’re always and already whole, and I’ll meet you where you are – wherever that may be in any moment of our work together.

I’m intuitive.  That means that from any moment to the next, I don’t necessarily know what I’m going to say or suggest.  I trust my intuition, and I’ll ask you to trust it also – or at least to play along with me, even if something sounds wacky.  I know it’s possible to tune into what’s calling you, what’s deeply true for you, and to operate from that place even when you don’t know what the hell is going on.

I care.  My work with clients regularly brings me to tears of gladness, awe, and humility.  I stand in amazement of who we all are and what we can accomplish when we open to our wholeness and the tremendous power of our spirits and our vulnerability.

I want to help you succeed.  It’s as simple – and profound – as that.

This morning I delivered the closing keynote at a conference.  (It was a small conference, but still – fun – me! closing keynote!)

I learned a couple of things, one of which is that networking, even the way I present it (a tad differently from most), is just not sexy.  (More on that in a minute.)

I also heard something that I hear a lot when I talk to people about networking (or for that matter, about almost anything in life):  how wrong people tend to feel when their experience doesn’t line up with their expectations.

One woman discovered that she’s always thought it was her fault when she wasn’t able to make the connections she expected to make at an event.   After hearing what I said about how to pick which events to attend, she realized she’d been trying to break into “old boys’ club” cliques.  I was delighted by the look of intrigue and even hope on her face as she started exploring ideas about alternatives.

This is why, whether I’m talking about networking or anything else, I always jump up and down about one particular point:

Your experience is the only thing that matters

I don’t care how many people say that you “should” do something.  If it’s not working for you, for pete’s sake STOP! 

At the very least you owe it to yourself to take a look at why it’s not working.  The common assumption is that somehow you’re screwing it up.  Is that really true, or is there something else going on?

The woman at the conference is one example. 

My own expectations and experience there is another.  I know my networking material is good.  So I expected that some of the people at the conference would be interested in getting my networking workbook and audio package at a big discount.

Um, not.  As I said, networking isn’t sexy.  It’s especially not sexy when you’ve been at a conference for several days and your brain is tired.  It’s even less sexy when you’re feeling safely employed by a company that doesn’t require you to go out and network as part of your job requirements.  (Oh, yeah.  Hm.  I remember those days!)

They liked the presentation well enough, but without the support of a company purchase order, the chances of their buying the package weren’t high. 

So, was I wrong to think this was a good opportunity to promote the workbook? 

As I drove away from the conference center this morning, I was calling myself all kinds of names, questioning my marketing message and my marketing abilities, blah – blah – blah. 

Until I realized – hey, this is another experience thing.  And guess what?  You can’t learn from experience until you’ve had an experience.  Before, I’d presented my networking material to people who are much more personally invested in effective networking:  fellow small-business folk and self-employed professionals.  This was something new – and I learned from it.

Now, if I repeat the same mistake, then I’d say there might be a problem. 

But as long as I remember that my experience matters, and matters a whole lot more than what “they” might tell me, I’ll be okay. 

And just for the record, “they” includes that critical internal voice!

You can find out more about the networking material at How to Kiss Frogs and Find Royalty: the fine art of fun, productive networking. (See, I told you it was a tad different from the norm!)

My post last week on manufacturing authenticity seemed to strike quite a chord for many people.  Their responses got me thinking further about what authenticity – and especially authenticity in marketing – actually means.

What struck me most in reading the comments was an almost unanimous agreement that we each know authenticity when we see it, even if we can’t clearly state a definition.

But – do we?

It’s easy, for instance, to say that the hypey, yellow-highlighted, screaming-font online sales page is inauthentic.  Most of us have a pretty strong “ick” reaction to that sort of marketing.  (Of course, those pages are effective in some ways, or no one would use them – but that’s a different conversation.)

When we set that genre of marketing aside, however, the question of authenticity in marketing becomes fuzzier.  And knowing it when we see it becomes very much a question of perspective.

For instance, from the perspective of a customer, I absolutely want you to tell me, and tell me repeatedly, about earlybird price deadlines.  I will be truly annoyed at you if I want to buy something and you fail to remind me that I’m about to miss out on a price break.  I’d almost (almost!) go so far as to say that you almost (almost!) can’t remind me too often.

From the perspective of the person sending those emails out, though, it’s a far different story.  I know that my marketing is firmly rooted in my desire to help my clients.  I know that the work I do – the products and services I provide – produces results for my customers.  I don’t just “think” or “feel” this, I know it, because I see the results and my clients tell me about their excitement, progress, and satisfaction.  All that knowing, plus my own commitment to truth, adds up to authenticity in what I write, whether it’s a reminder email or a sales page.

Nonetheless, I struggle with sending out those reminder emails.  I flinch when I press the “send” button in my list management system, and I cringe when I look to see whether a marketing email has caused people to unsubscribe.

And I wonder if there’s a line that can be crossed even here.  A friend of mine had a strong negative response to a marketing message he felt was manipulative.  The person who wrote the message is also someone I know, so I know he’s someone who deeply believes in his work and in the service he provides. 

From my third-party perspective, I saw the message as authentic – and yet my friend found it annoyingly manipulative because he felt an urge to buy something he didn’t need or want. 

It’s as if becoming too good a marketing copywriter has the potential to degrade your customers’ perception of your authenticity!

In the end, of course there’s no way to reach a clear-cut answer on any of these questions of authenticity.  We’re all different people, with different reactions to different types of messages. 

The best we can do is to be very clear with ourselves:  are we being honest in whatever it is we’re saying and doing – whether we’re marketing something or not?  And are we being conscious about the words we choose and the ways in which we act, so that we remain consistent with our honesty and aware of acting with sensitivity and compassion?

After that, the rest is up to our audience – and our ability to accept their responses for what they are, without taking it personally, but with a willingness to learn.

Hmm.  How’s that for a definition of authenticity?

Early this year, I wrote a post in response to a reader who had, in essence, questioned my authenticity.  She’d said that I was asking people to show up, here on my blog and in my work with them as clients, and reveal their vulnerabilities and fears, yet she felt that I wasn’t doing the same. 

I felt weird writing the post, but I attributed it to being more “out there” and vulnerable (more authentic?) than had been my norm, especially since blogging was new to me at the time.

It’s bugged me ever since, so I’m finally writing this post to clarify things.

I thought, then and now, that the reader had a valid point.  In attempting to respond to that point, I’d sat down at my computer keyboard with an intention to be really, really authentic and vulnerable.

But what resulted wasn’t honest.  It was a case of manufacturing authenticity.  I got drawn into being more dramatic than I am.  It also ended up appearing to be a plea for sympathy or support, which I didn’t need.  (There are times when I do, believe me, but that wasn’t one of them.)

I tend to process my stuff pretty quietly.  I’m so quiet that a good friend of mine once complained that there were times when she found herself wondering how well she actually knew me.   I’d say this is because I’m an introvert, yet I know other people who are introverts and are nonetheless much more public with their process. 

Both of these approaches - and all the other flavours of how people present themselves – is perfectly all right.  And I think that when we look for authenticity, in ourselves as well as in other people, it’s profoundly important to remember that authenticity shows up in different ways for different people. 

At the same time, I’ve got this uncomfortable feeling that “authenticity” has become a marketing tool.

Actually, I have a feeling that my feeling about this is a wee bit belated.  So much so that you may be shaking your head and wondering what cave I’ve been living in for not having realized this sooner.

In wondering about this, I’m reading websites and blogs and asking myself … how do I know if this is who this person really is?  How do I discover if I can actually trust what this person says?  Are they how they present themselves, or is this manufactured authenticity being used to market their business?

I’m not comfortable with this question, yet I’m also not comfortable with leaving it unanswered. 

What do you think?  And how would you answer the question?

My friends Ana and Craig got married this past Sunday.

They’ve been a couple for about nine or ten years.  Way back in the beginning, I promised Ana that when they got married, I’d make her wedding cake.

She has a very good memory.

Therefore, I spent most of Saturday afternoon and all of Sunday morning making this:

(Yes, that’s me peeking out from behind in the mirror!)

The cake was the exact color of her dress.  I’d like to say that was as planned – which it was, of course – but it was also wholly serendipitous.  I’d never seen the dress; all I had to go on was “purple.”  And it was very nearly a LOT MORE purple.  That tiny little jar of food coloring, discretely labelled “violet,” would color enough frosting for 100 more cakes that size.

She had about 90 people at the wedding, and the cake wasn’t even half eaten.  That’s not because of the taste:  it was good.  A rich, delicate yellow cake, with raspberry filling in the bottom layer, orange curd filling in the middle layer, and lemon curd filling in the top.  Yum.  People had seconds.

No, it was the sheer size of the thing.  The bottom layer is 12″, the middle is 10″, and the top is 8″.  I’d planned a smaller cake, but then I saw the cake topper, and I had to keep it in proportion, after all!

The frosting alone had 2 1/2 pounds of butter in it.

My kitchen looked like a purple butter bomb exploded in it.

It was fun.