Whenever I write a ‘story’ (on LinkedIn or wherever) it’s read, remembered and redistributed far more than a ‘post’, or an ‘article’, or ‘advice’, or a ‘piece’. Redistribution is particularly valuable of course… And evidence that stories travel further.

I know all this because a great number of people chat with me about, ‘stories’ I write. And fewer talk to me about ‘articles’ I write.

Jellyfish is a story I wrote about something Izobel said. And how her state of mind at the time mirrored the state of mind I want to create at www.oldpostoffice.co.uk.

Mind the Leprechaun is similar (probably my very favourite story about Izobel). About risk.

Just Stop Oil Probably Shouldn’t be Called Just Stop Oil is good advice. But not as storyful as Jellyfish and Leprechaun. So it doesn’t travel so far.

Whenever I write a ‘story’ (on LinkedIn or wherever) it’s read, remembered and redistributed far more than a ‘post’, or an ‘article’, or ‘advice’, or a ‘piece’. Redistribution is particularly valuable of course… And evidence that stories travel further.

If we ask question 1, we must work out how to take the audience’s attention away from something they find more entertaining.  If we ask question 2, we must become the entertainment. Asking question 2 is how to win.

Question 1:  What’s the best way to promote our business?

Question 2:  What can we say that audiences find so nourishing* they’ll send it to someone they know?

I help five brands tell their story right now.  And we always ask question 2.

Because if we ask question 1, we must work out how to take the audience’s attention away from something they find more entertaining.  If we ask question 2, we must become the entertainment.

Asking question 2 is how to win.

*Nourishing = funny, uplifting, interesting, valuable, useful, entertaining, inspiring, educational (and always palatable).

In my mid twenties, I went on a course by an organisation called Common Purpose. It was packed with MBEs, OBEs, other responsible and accomplished grown ups – and me.*

I remember the course (mainly) for two reasons.

1. If you were late, even by a minute, you couldn’t come in. Harsh – and yet they communicated this in a smiling and likeable way. I liked that. It set a tone. And (I didn’t realise this at the time) made subsequent courses I went on that didn’t say this feel, somehow, lesser.
2. They encouraged participants to think and behave ‘Beyond Their Apparent Authority.’

This second point shows the importance of precise word selection. I remember it – exactly – thirty years later. And also that I think the most important word is the sentence is… ‘Apparent.’

In this context, at this time, to me as a young man, that word ‘Apparent’ was real wake up call. I blinked fast and frowned as I processed it. I woke up to the fact that if all I ever did was do what I was ‘apparently’ allowed to do – I’d be ordinary. Unquestioning. Average. The same. And that frightened me.

Apparently is a dangerous word. Avoid.

*I still feel this on courses today, by the way. Thirty years later.

If my favourite whiskey is in a heavy glass. If it’s a double. If I can hold it up to the light to check (for no reason at all) the colour. And if I can hear the clink of one ice cube… I’m happy.

I’m not sure why my touch, sight and hearing senses make my favourite whisky taste nicer. But they do.

This being true, then why would most business-leaders-as-bartenders, from what I can see – focus only on telling me how great the whiskey is, before serving half a pint of it to me, in a bloody mug?

I see some beautiful products and services. And I am lucky enough to meet some mindblowingly clever business leaders. But, mostly, the marketers responsible for communicating the offer don’t understand rituals.

Business rituals, I think, are real. The things that go on ‘around’ your offer. Many are nuanced, nonsensical even – and weird. Which is (and I do mean this) BRILLIANT! Because I love weird (and so do consumers). But most rituals are ignored. Opportunity is lost. And yet again, offers blend into one.

Rituals range from silly to superb. Slices of lime in the tops of bottled beer? ‘Bit silly (but good for early sales, as it goes). The way it feels and sounds when opening and using an apple product for the first time. Superb.

There will definitely be rituals in your world. Learn what they are. Invent some, even. Make them smart, memorable and different if you want to pull ahead of the rest. But don’t imagine that there aren’t any rituals in your world. No matter what business you’re in. Because you’d be wrong.

As a little reminder of how rituals work, and some useful information for if I ever see you around… my favourite whiskey* is in a heavy glass. If it’s a double. If I can hold it up to the light to check (for no reason at all) the colour. And if I can hear the clink of one ice cube… I’m happy.

*Johnnie Walker Black.

Here are three things that we say (OK, that I’ve said) in business that aren’t true.

1. Everybody says…
2. LinkedIn’s rubbish. I don’t want to write on LinkedIn.*
3. I don’t have an opinion on that.

What I actually meant was:

1. My echo chamber says.
2. I’m scared to be one of the 2 million that write on LinkedIn each day.
3. I’m scared to express my opinion out loud, to all.

I mention this because these three things bobbed up (again) in conversations I had last week. Which is fine. I like discussing them. I like discussing these three things because…

…when I understand what people I want to work with really want. Then say (out loud) what I think about what people I want to work with really want. The people I want to work with (sometimes) approach me to explore me helping them to get what they really want.

Bye.

*LinkedIn can be a bit rubbish. But with patience and application, it can be pretty good too.

Great ideas in business are really, really rare. If we look through today’s two million new LinkedIn posts, searching for just one smashing, brain-tickling idea – we won’t find many. Or any. And that’s a shame.

I still like the idea of putting helium in the bubble wrap bit of those padded postage envelopes. So parcels are lighter and cheaper to post.

I like the idea for two reasons.

First, because the image in my mind of posties opening the back door of their van, shouting, ‘Shit!’ as my latest Vinted thing floats away, is funny.

Second, because even though it won’t work, it’s still a great (kind of) idea to have.

It’s a great (kind of) idea to have because it makes me smile. It relaxes me. It makes me want to inject helium into bubblewrap, just to check. But most importantly, it makes me want to have funner ideas. And that’s great news. Because the best ideas lie the other side of the crazy ones.

Great ideas in business are really, really rare. If we look through today’s two million new LinkedIn posts, searching for just one smashing, brain-tickling idea – we won’t find many. Or any. And that’s a shame.

Last month, I sat in the foyer of a London hotel, with Guinness. I was with one friend I’ve known for 20 years. And another I’d known for 20 minutes.

I listened hard (eyes wide, eyebrows down) as my old friend spoke of his struggle to master swimming. And I listened hard (eyes wide, eyebrows down) as my new friend spoke of his struggle to master canoeing.

I listened hard because I’ve been trying to master kickboxing for three whole years now. Four times a week. Every week. And I’m struggling. I am so very often frustrated. Angry. Lost. Teary, even. Even though I have trained so very frequently, for so very long.

I shared these feelings with Martin and Olly. And I reminded them of my commitment. Four times a week. Every week. For three years.

Martin, I discovered, is 64. He is considered an elite, master swimmer these days. Martin has swum five times weekly, for fifty years. I learned of his struggles and frustrations back then – and now.

Olly, I discovered, is 32. He canoes for Great Britain. Olly has canoed at least three times a week, for twenty-four years. I learned of his struggles and frustrations back then – and now.

But of course, my bigger discovery was that mastery isn’t a destination at all. A neat, contrived – and relaxing notion I know. But also true.

So I sat back. Smiled. And had another Guinness.

Copywriting is a puzzle to me. It’s so broad. When someone says they’re a copywriter it’s like someone saying they work in IT. I’m still not sure exactly what they do.

I think I’m a copywriter. When I write, for myself or others, I’m making synchronised choices around clarity, pace, patterns, repetition, brand, tone, messages, difference and how interesting and palatable everything is. Simplicity, ownership and what I want remembered most, too. And more. Probably.

I don’t use the word ‘nestled,’ though. Posh venues say they’re nestled in the countryside. But they’re not really. They’re just near some trees. So I don’t use the word nestled.

And I don’t write ‘leading’ or ‘better’ or ‘passionate’. Words that are table-stakes, or open to interpretation. They have no value.

What I do do though. (Do do. I like that. Do do). Before I tell the story, I mean. Is make sure it’s exactly the right story to tell. That’s my Brand Director bit. Because if it’s not the right story – then what’s the point?

So there you go. If you do what I mention here – really well – then maybe you’re a copywriter too. Or a Brand Director. Or both.

Just don’t use the word nestled and you’ll be fine.