Writing a speech or employee broadcast related to the death of an employee can be an intimidating assignment for any communicator. In the spirit of Memorial Day in the US, I thought I would offer my thoughts on how to handle a potentially difficult assignment.
Working as the speech writer for the Commissioner of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, it was my sad duty and professional privilege to eulogize fallen police officers on several occasions. Over time I learned that finding the right tone and having a sound structure to your product are equally crucial. You want to honor your subject sincerely and appropriately. To do that, your words have to come from the heart.
You can't fake sincerity. What you have to do, then, is make friends with the deceased: find out all you can about the person being eulogized, including family life, upbringing, work stories and the circumstances surrounding the person's death.
Was the person a sports fanatic? Did she have some involvement with a particular cause or organization? What kind of music did he listen to? Without going overboard, you should acknowledge some personal characteristics or idiosyncrasies that will make the subject real for people who didn't know him at all, and will pass muster with those who knew him best.
Was there a spouse or child left behind? What about a favorite pet? Put yourself in the place of the subject's friends and loved ones and imagine what they would be feeling during this difficult time.
Acknowledge what happened. If the individual died violently or as a result of an accident, talk about what is happening now and what will happen next to address the cause of the incident. If it was a long illness, express how she handed her illness and seek comforting words for those who were with her during her struggle.
What about those co-workers who must not only carry on with their own work, but might also be conducting an investigation or picking up the files the deceased was working on? Don't forget to acknowledge their loss.
Finally, you need to find something that will inspire everybody to keep moving forward. When I had to announce the shooting death of two officers in a remote community, our message mentioned the man who was wanted in the shootings and how pursuing justice was the finest tribute we could pay to our fallen colleagues.
Finally, thank all those employees who are left behind to carry on. They need to know that their work is valued, and that their friend and co-worker did not die in vain.
At the start of this post I called it a professional privilege to eulogize a valued colleague. It's not something you can treat like just another assignment; your subject deserves better than that. I've tried to give some advice about how to approach an assignment like this, but there's no magic formula, and there shouldn't be. The important thing to remember is that this person deserves your best effort.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
I Wish I Could Write Music
I guess it's just human nature to never be satisfied. Although I'm not rich, I'm comfortable. I'm writing for a living, which a lot of "aspiring" writers don't ever get to do. I'm very happily married to a wonderful woman whom I love as much as life itself and who loves me with all her heart and soul. Together, we have a very pleasant, healthy, smart and talented son. So I should be satisfied, right?
But even though he's not quite ten years old, my son can do something I can't; he can write music. I don't just mean he knows where the notes go and what they sound like. I mean he can imagine tunes in his head, write them down on staff paper, and play them back on his violin or piano. And they sound good.
Naturally, I'm proud as punch about his musical gifts. But I’m envious too. This evening I was listening to the radio and Neil Young's version of the classic Canadian folk song, "Four Strong Winds," came on.
I have always loved this song, ever since I first heard it nearly 40 years ago. Being a writer, I have always been attracted to the simplicity and stark realism of the lyrics:
And if I get there before the snow flies
And if things are lookin' good
You could meet me if I send you down the fare....
But tonight I was listening to something underneath the words. I was hearing little things like the acoustic guitar going up the scale after the chorus, for instance, and the way the steel guitar joins in unobtrusively but insistently at the same time. Musicians will talk about their lyrics as complementing the music. I've always thought of it the other way around.
I once had a musician friend who wanted to me to write lyrics with him, but we could never agree on what should come first - the words or the music. I'd write lyrics and expect him to come up with a tune for them, while he'd play me a song and expect me to write words for it. In hindsight, I think his approach was probably the right one. David Byrne once said that lyrics are just a way to trick people into listening to the music, and I suspect a lot of songwriters feel the same way. Certainly, the great opera composers are more famous now than the librettists who put words to their music.
Bruce Cockburn once said of Handel that he really knew how a write a hook. And that's what it's all about, isn't it? There's a reason more people listen to pop songs than read poetry. Springsteen has great lyrics, but only because they match the music.
So what am I saying - that writing music is a more valuable skill than writing words? Not at all. If you listen to Janis Joplin's last studio album, "Pearl," there's one instrumental track called "Buried Alive in the Blues." It wasn't intended as an instrumental, but she died before she recorded the vocals and the producers decided to include it anyway. It's a nice tune, but it's still only half a song.
What I'm saying is that people with a diversity of talents sometimes need to work together to create something really special. Even though the words are simple, try to imagine a song like "Peggy Sue" as an instrumental. It just doesn't work.
As writers, we often have the privilege of partnering with designers, artists and other creative types to produce really compelling work. Maybe even musicians. We should appreciate the fact that we have a skill that can be used to enhance all kinds of media - like music.
But I still get a little jealous sometimes that I can't write my own music.
But even though he's not quite ten years old, my son can do something I can't; he can write music. I don't just mean he knows where the notes go and what they sound like. I mean he can imagine tunes in his head, write them down on staff paper, and play them back on his violin or piano. And they sound good.
Naturally, I'm proud as punch about his musical gifts. But I’m envious too. This evening I was listening to the radio and Neil Young's version of the classic Canadian folk song, "Four Strong Winds," came on.
I have always loved this song, ever since I first heard it nearly 40 years ago. Being a writer, I have always been attracted to the simplicity and stark realism of the lyrics:
And if I get there before the snow flies
And if things are lookin' good
You could meet me if I send you down the fare....
But tonight I was listening to something underneath the words. I was hearing little things like the acoustic guitar going up the scale after the chorus, for instance, and the way the steel guitar joins in unobtrusively but insistently at the same time. Musicians will talk about their lyrics as complementing the music. I've always thought of it the other way around.
I once had a musician friend who wanted to me to write lyrics with him, but we could never agree on what should come first - the words or the music. I'd write lyrics and expect him to come up with a tune for them, while he'd play me a song and expect me to write words for it. In hindsight, I think his approach was probably the right one. David Byrne once said that lyrics are just a way to trick people into listening to the music, and I suspect a lot of songwriters feel the same way. Certainly, the great opera composers are more famous now than the librettists who put words to their music.
Bruce Cockburn once said of Handel that he really knew how a write a hook. And that's what it's all about, isn't it? There's a reason more people listen to pop songs than read poetry. Springsteen has great lyrics, but only because they match the music.
So what am I saying - that writing music is a more valuable skill than writing words? Not at all. If you listen to Janis Joplin's last studio album, "Pearl," there's one instrumental track called "Buried Alive in the Blues." It wasn't intended as an instrumental, but she died before she recorded the vocals and the producers decided to include it anyway. It's a nice tune, but it's still only half a song.
What I'm saying is that people with a diversity of talents sometimes need to work together to create something really special. Even though the words are simple, try to imagine a song like "Peggy Sue" as an instrumental. It just doesn't work.
As writers, we often have the privilege of partnering with designers, artists and other creative types to produce really compelling work. Maybe even musicians. We should appreciate the fact that we have a skill that can be used to enhance all kinds of media - like music.
But I still get a little jealous sometimes that I can't write my own music.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Joy of Puns
Puns have been described as the lowest form of humor, but it's a description I have a hard time accepting.
While it's true that we often rhyme off puns without a lot of forethought, and they elicit more groans than guffaws, a really clever pun is truly a thing of beauty.
What makes a great pun great is how it brings forth other people's creative juices, leading to a whole string of hilarious puns and a laughfest, however brief, that will brighten the day of just about everyone within earshot. On the other hand, not everyone has a talent for creating them, and people without this talent don't often find them all that funny.
The other drawback is that they never seem nearly so funny in the retelling. For instance, one of my all-time favorite puns was made more than 20 years ago, by a member of an improv troupe doing a round of art puns. I still grin when I think of it, but have never dared to repeat it; the magical moment in which it was conceived disappeared just as quickly as it arrived.
One that I will repeat came to me in my early 20's when I was working on a radio comedy show with a good friend and fellow writer. I wish I knew what he's doing now, because he was really, really funny and he had a way of inspiring others to new comedic heights. Anyway, we were developing a skit centered on geology puns at the time.
Like the art puns, I don't remember every geology pun we came up with, or even who came up with what. What I do remember is that he blurted out, "You're full of schist!" I replied, "Uranium my parade."
Doesn't seem so funny now, does it? It wasn't that funny when we recorded it either. In fact, it was never as funny as the time I first blurted it out during our writing session. Maybe that's why puns don't really get the respect they deserve. Except in the hands of a professional actor or comedian, they're never as funny the second time around.
While it's true that we often rhyme off puns without a lot of forethought, and they elicit more groans than guffaws, a really clever pun is truly a thing of beauty.
What makes a great pun great is how it brings forth other people's creative juices, leading to a whole string of hilarious puns and a laughfest, however brief, that will brighten the day of just about everyone within earshot. On the other hand, not everyone has a talent for creating them, and people without this talent don't often find them all that funny.
The other drawback is that they never seem nearly so funny in the retelling. For instance, one of my all-time favorite puns was made more than 20 years ago, by a member of an improv troupe doing a round of art puns. I still grin when I think of it, but have never dared to repeat it; the magical moment in which it was conceived disappeared just as quickly as it arrived.
One that I will repeat came to me in my early 20's when I was working on a radio comedy show with a good friend and fellow writer. I wish I knew what he's doing now, because he was really, really funny and he had a way of inspiring others to new comedic heights. Anyway, we were developing a skit centered on geology puns at the time.
Like the art puns, I don't remember every geology pun we came up with, or even who came up with what. What I do remember is that he blurted out, "You're full of schist!" I replied, "Uranium my parade."
Doesn't seem so funny now, does it? It wasn't that funny when we recorded it either. In fact, it was never as funny as the time I first blurted it out during our writing session. Maybe that's why puns don't really get the respect they deserve. Except in the hands of a professional actor or comedian, they're never as funny the second time around.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Don't try to Second - Guess your Approvers
Part Two - It's you!
In my last post I talked about difficult people along the approval chain and why you should trust your own instincts and do your best work no matter what the circumstances.
Today I'm going to talk about the other side of the coin, and it's one that writers don't like to think about: The possibility that you might be part of the problem.
Sometimes when approvers re-write your material or refuse to sign off on a product even "with tracked changes," they do so because they've been burned in the past by communication specialists who don't know their subject or let their egos get in the way of accepting necessary changes.
The fact is, most of us have been that communication specialist at some time in our careers.
A couple of months into my first job in government communication, I was tasked with writing speaking notes for the Minister, who was scheduled to make an announcement concerning a major international trade initiative. Although I didn't receive enough direction on the front end, I still felt like I had done a pretty good job of it, until the director general's assistant called me up to his office. I was met at the elevator by a phalanx of international trade folks, one of whom seized my ID card and proclaimed, "It doesn't say 'poor bastard' here!"
That was my first inkling that I was going to have to do more than just a little tinkering to make the speech workable.
In the interests of brevity, I won't go into detail about what transpired over the next day and a half while I worked with the international trade folks to whip the speech into shape. But with their input and my writing skills, we arrived at something we all could be proud of.
That experience taught me two things: The first is that, as a communicator, you need to build relationships with your subject matter experts so you do receive timely guidance on products and messaging. The other is that something I might spend a few days on represents several weeks or even months of work to someone else, and I shouldn't be surprised if they have very strong feelings about it.
So the bottom line is, you should always assume that even the most difficult approvers really do have something of value to contribute. There's a good chance you're just not seeing it because all the jargon and complex language is getting in the way. Maybe you should re-examine your working relationship and see if there's a way you can demonstrate your value to the organization.
I'm not a fan of meetings just for the sake of meeting, but after this experience I started asking to attend early planning meetings to demonstrate my interest in and understanding of trade issues. Within a few months, when products bearing my name went through the international trade directorate, the director-general and the subject matter experts knew who I was, what I was capable of, and that I had treated their area with the attention and care that it deserved.
Sometimes there were still delays and changes that I thought were unnecessary, but the wholesale changes and demands for re-writes never happened again. And even though we got off on the wrong foot, our overall working relationship ended up being both positive and productive.
After all, doesn’t everybody just want to be respected for the knowledge and expertise that we bring to the table?
In my last post I talked about difficult people along the approval chain and why you should trust your own instincts and do your best work no matter what the circumstances.
Today I'm going to talk about the other side of the coin, and it's one that writers don't like to think about: The possibility that you might be part of the problem.
Sometimes when approvers re-write your material or refuse to sign off on a product even "with tracked changes," they do so because they've been burned in the past by communication specialists who don't know their subject or let their egos get in the way of accepting necessary changes.
The fact is, most of us have been that communication specialist at some time in our careers.
A couple of months into my first job in government communication, I was tasked with writing speaking notes for the Minister, who was scheduled to make an announcement concerning a major international trade initiative. Although I didn't receive enough direction on the front end, I still felt like I had done a pretty good job of it, until the director general's assistant called me up to his office. I was met at the elevator by a phalanx of international trade folks, one of whom seized my ID card and proclaimed, "It doesn't say 'poor bastard' here!"
That was my first inkling that I was going to have to do more than just a little tinkering to make the speech workable.
In the interests of brevity, I won't go into detail about what transpired over the next day and a half while I worked with the international trade folks to whip the speech into shape. But with their input and my writing skills, we arrived at something we all could be proud of.
That experience taught me two things: The first is that, as a communicator, you need to build relationships with your subject matter experts so you do receive timely guidance on products and messaging. The other is that something I might spend a few days on represents several weeks or even months of work to someone else, and I shouldn't be surprised if they have very strong feelings about it.
So the bottom line is, you should always assume that even the most difficult approvers really do have something of value to contribute. There's a good chance you're just not seeing it because all the jargon and complex language is getting in the way. Maybe you should re-examine your working relationship and see if there's a way you can demonstrate your value to the organization.
I'm not a fan of meetings just for the sake of meeting, but after this experience I started asking to attend early planning meetings to demonstrate my interest in and understanding of trade issues. Within a few months, when products bearing my name went through the international trade directorate, the director-general and the subject matter experts knew who I was, what I was capable of, and that I had treated their area with the attention and care that it deserved.
Sometimes there were still delays and changes that I thought were unnecessary, but the wholesale changes and demands for re-writes never happened again. And even though we got off on the wrong foot, our overall working relationship ended up being both positive and productive.
After all, doesn’t everybody just want to be respected for the knowledge and expertise that we bring to the table?
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