Today, I strolled right into a normal bookstore on Haight Street and picked up a copy of Other Voices, Other Rooms right off the shelf. I've been looking for this in Melbourne since, oh, December, when my cousin finished VCE. Now four months have passed and it's her 18th. Capote is the goods. And where can you get him at the drop of a hat? Only in America, people.
Also, Peter Glorious Cameron has a new book out that's certain to kill me: Coral Glynn. It launched earlier this month and, despite my promising myself I wouldn't buy any more books (purely for the safety of other passengers on tomorrow's flight—don't wanna overload the plane etc.), I obviously will need to get back to City Lights tomorrow to see if they have a copy.
If I get it, I promise I won't read it on the plane, because if I do, I'll probably wind up a homicidal wreck.
Update: Started reading, and am now convinced this is the only thing that will prevent me becoming a homicidal wreck on the plane. There's no way I'm not reading this on the way home. No way.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Monday, March 26, 2012
The (old) new branding
Back in the day, Razorfish was what we wide-eyed n00bs used to reverently refer to as a "cutting-edge digital agency."
So this piece, published on the Razorfish Australia blog last week, which considers the application of storytelling in the online space, surprised me (even though it was written by a staff member who's on a graduate program with the company). This, in particular:
So this piece, published on the Razorfish Australia blog last week, which considers the application of storytelling in the online space, surprised me (even though it was written by a staff member who's on a graduate program with the company). This, in particular:
"I suppose this means furthering a campaign or brand story at each consumer touch-point. Which leads to one of the main takeaways from Tim’s talk: story is the new branding."
Woah. This is news? If you're not furthering the brand story every time you communicate with your audience, then what are you doing? (Also, if you think you're not furthering the brand story every time you communicate with your audience, then your audience has news for you. Story isn't new to them. Stories are how humans make sense of their experiences.)
In an interview I did last year, Seth Godin said, "In a world where there’s not a lot of scarcity of ideas ... ubiquity is a better strategy [than exclusivity]."
If you're going to be ubiquitous, you need a coherent storyline, otherwise you're just talking. A few tools that can help with online storytelling:
- a brand persona
- brand vocabulary/language
- audience profiles/personas
- a creative strategy
- content and community strategies
- an engaging, compelling social media presence
- an interactive* blog or other rich public content presence
- out-of-brand-context appearances (e.g. community or event sponsorship)
- creative collaborative alliances (e.g. coauthor an article/cocreate a video with an authority or character your audience loves/respects)
- informational/entertaining subscription products (e.g. email, video, webinar, or other content series)
The problem with this list, from a digital-agency-account-management viewpoint, is that none of these items mentions sales. None of them is sales-campaign-focused.
They can be, but, better than that, these tools create a conversation or context for selling. They can be used to create a storyline in which sales are an inevitable feature—along with loyalty, advocacy, and so on.
They can be, but, better than that, these tools create a conversation or context for selling. They can be used to create a storyline in which sales are an inevitable feature—along with loyalty, advocacy, and so on.
The question is how agencies sell that argument to sales-focused, besuited clients who don't really believe in social media, let alone things like content marketing, and have no idea how their target customers actually live.
*By which I mean proactive engagement, not "interactive" in the traditional, functional sense.
"Salty, tasty pig parts"
What's amazing about this New Scientist article is that it explains our understanding of language as a filtering process.
According to the research, understanding words requires us to split them into composite sounds, based on auditory frequency, which are understood in separate parts of the brain. Also, the article comments that "mental imagery activates very similar networks."
That's pretty complicated. This means language isn't just about learned knowledge (meanings) and physical capabilities (ears and mouths). It also suggests, to me, anyway, that language and visualisation could be variations of the same thing. That thing being thinking-understanding. And emoting.
Is that why we consider good, clear, communicative writing to be that which is evocative and vivid?
In San Francisco's Ferry Building there's a smallgoods shop whose tagline reads "Salty, tasty pig parts". When I've been there (on different occasions), I've noticed that many passersby say this phrase when they see it.
Sure, it's a delightfully unpretentious phrase. But what is it that compels people to say "Salty, tasty pig parts"? The rhythm? The vivid sensations evoked by those words? Both? And once we've actually said the words, rather than simply "heard" them in our heads as we've read the sign, does that make them more sensual and evocative—visually, at least? Does it lodge them deeper in our minds?
I think so. I think verbage that compels a physical response (smiling, exclaiming, reading aloud, etc.) is ideal for lasting communicative impact. Maybe you're thinking, "Well duh—jingles. Old news." But I think the question here is, can that be achieved with written text only, and can it be done in a non-intrusive way that doesn't annoy the audience?
The answer? Salty, tasty pig parts!
According to the research, understanding words requires us to split them into composite sounds, based on auditory frequency, which are understood in separate parts of the brain. Also, the article comments that "mental imagery activates very similar networks."
That's pretty complicated. This means language isn't just about learned knowledge (meanings) and physical capabilities (ears and mouths). It also suggests, to me, anyway, that language and visualisation could be variations of the same thing. That thing being thinking-understanding. And emoting.
Is that why we consider good, clear, communicative writing to be that which is evocative and vivid?
In San Francisco's Ferry Building there's a smallgoods shop whose tagline reads "Salty, tasty pig parts". When I've been there (on different occasions), I've noticed that many passersby say this phrase when they see it.
Sure, it's a delightfully unpretentious phrase. But what is it that compels people to say "Salty, tasty pig parts"? The rhythm? The vivid sensations evoked by those words? Both? And once we've actually said the words, rather than simply "heard" them in our heads as we've read the sign, does that make them more sensual and evocative—visually, at least? Does it lodge them deeper in our minds?
I think so. I think verbage that compels a physical response (smiling, exclaiming, reading aloud, etc.) is ideal for lasting communicative impact. Maybe you're thinking, "Well duh—jingles. Old news." But I think the question here is, can that be achieved with written text only, and can it be done in a non-intrusive way that doesn't annoy the audience?
The answer? Salty, tasty pig parts!
Thursday, March 22, 2012
[unremarkable]
[surrendered wholly to the luxurious indulgence of others. He wasn't in the habit of letting go like this—he liked his guard high—but these were strangers. They couldn't hurt him. He didn't have time to get attached, and he wouldn't miss them when he left.
All he'd miss would be the kindness.
At home, he was not an extraordinary man. He was the kind of person who stood back and blended in. He was unremarkable. But here, they treated him like a rare creature, magically captured. They wanted as much of him as they could get before the time came to release him back into the wild.
That time drew closer, but he ignored it. They kept asking when he was leaving, as if there were countless excitements they wanted to show him before they had to let him go. This made him feel warm, like sunlight through a window on a cold morning. What he didn't want to think about was going home, and how grey the mornings were there.]
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
CNFQ
The first published work of creative nonfiction was Truman Capote's In Cold Blood.
Today's CNF writers are told they must involve themselves in the story—that they must have a presence.
Why? Capote's not a voice in In Cold Blood. Where did this author-must-be-present notion come from?
While it can work if it's done well, usually I want to read CNF because of the facts, not the author. And too frequently an opening that talks in the first person, I think, puts the reader off. After all, don't we come to nonfiction wanting something approaching objectivity? I don't really want the story filtered first through the author's lens, and while—yes—any written item is inevitably filtered through the author's lens, I think putting the author into CNF vindicates the personalisation of what should be an attempt at objectivity.
No?
Today's CNF writers are told they must involve themselves in the story—that they must have a presence.
Why? Capote's not a voice in In Cold Blood. Where did this author-must-be-present notion come from?
While it can work if it's done well, usually I want to read CNF because of the facts, not the author. And too frequently an opening that talks in the first person, I think, puts the reader off. After all, don't we come to nonfiction wanting something approaching objectivity? I don't really want the story filtered first through the author's lens, and while—yes—any written item is inevitably filtered through the author's lens, I think putting the author into CNF vindicates the personalisation of what should be an attempt at objectivity.
No?
Monday, March 19, 2012
Light the lights. The City Lights
As you may have guessed from that title, I don't mind City Lights bookstore in San Francisco.
Last time I went there I remember feeling intimidated, probably because of all the highbrow arts-PhD-style literature. And the impenetrable beatnik thing which, despite repeated tries, I just can't seem to crack.
But this time, I found an entire subterranean floor of nonfiction. And it was good.
Whatever section you choose to pore over, multiple takes—multiple titles—on that subject are offered. So you can compare before you buy, and find something that really piques your specific interest, rather than making do with something you'll be bored with by page 15. Forget ordering in: it's all here.*
Having written that, I can't believe I just wrote that.
I live near what is supposedly the most "cultural" and "intellectual" city in a first-world country, yet the nonfiction sections in most of the bookstore comprise bestsellers and a few not-actually-bestsellers-but-still-wildly-popular nonfiction titles only. Slim pickings.
Good nonfiction lights the lights of curiosity, and fuels the fires of learning. I posit that Melbourne needs a bookshop that sells nonfiction exclusively. Too much to ask?
*For the record, today's nonfiction purchases included this and this. Excited? Me too!
Last time I went there I remember feeling intimidated, probably because of all the highbrow arts-PhD-style literature. And the impenetrable beatnik thing which, despite repeated tries, I just can't seem to crack.
But this time, I found an entire subterranean floor of nonfiction. And it was good.
Whatever section you choose to pore over, multiple takes—multiple titles—on that subject are offered. So you can compare before you buy, and find something that really piques your specific interest, rather than making do with something you'll be bored with by page 15. Forget ordering in: it's all here.*
Having written that, I can't believe I just wrote that.
I live near what is supposedly the most "cultural" and "intellectual" city in a first-world country, yet the nonfiction sections in most of the bookstore comprise bestsellers and a few not-actually-bestsellers-but-still-wildly-popular nonfiction titles only. Slim pickings.
Good nonfiction lights the lights of curiosity, and fuels the fires of learning. I posit that Melbourne needs a bookshop that sells nonfiction exclusively. Too much to ask?
*For the record, today's nonfiction purchases included this and this. Excited? Me too!
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Not entertainment: torture
Watching The Slap just four months after reading The Corrections was a mistake.
Both stories concern themselves with suburban familial problems, and in both the plotlines are tortuous and slow. Spending, in the first case, hours, and in the second, months, striving to silence an inner voice that constantly wails, "But who cares?" is a challenge even for the strongest entertainment devotee.
But therein lies the problem: these stories are not entertainment. They're torture.
Why? I think it's the characters. Compare The Slap and The Corrections with other family dramas like The Sopranos. The reason we care about the Soprano family is that we can see something of ourselves in them, and this is amazing, because they're mobsters. We look at Tony or Carmella and think, "These guys are freakin' crazy!" At the same time, we're touched by Tony's almost self-abasing willingness to give basically everyone in his family a break—even those we'd happily counsel him to kill.
Tony's a monster who's more human than we are. By comparison, Breaking Bad's Walt White is a human who's more monster than we are. This kind of character composition makes for intrigue; it sets us up to be moved.
The Slap and The Corrections have "complex" characters, but only within the narrow kaleidoscope of neurosis, self-loathing, self-absorbtion, and apathy. They're monodimensionally complex. All their intricacies lead down the same interminable path: you know nothing interesting can happen by page (or minute) five, because by then each character's utterly uncreative personality has been so clearly laid out. No one's going to do anything noble, or daring, or even halfway self-respecting. Their whole purpose is to exemplify pathetic self-entrapment in myriad repetitive ways, and far too many installments.
Even that makes this genre (if indeed we should call it that) sound more intriguing than it is: these stories simply gild brain-dead, educated, middle-class suburban boredom into "relatable" media products. At best, they are good things to show your children, eyes pinned open, Clockwork Orange-style, with the words, "For Christ's sakes, if you do nothing else, think more creatively about life than these morons."
For modern dramas, they're both appallingly neatly wrapped up in their dying moments, too. Burned bridges are rebuilt, the selfish become more charitable—but always for the goal of self-preservation though the protection of some conservative, idealised status quo.
That status quo sees morbidly dysfunctional families stay together, toxic friendships mindlessly perpetuated, and humans, in general, bowing to convention, obligation, and societal expectation rather than intelligently thinking about what they might need or like, and at least setting out to try and achieve it. Moreover, both stories present their protagonists' actions as strength rather than cowardice and/or outright stupidity.
The capacity for creative thought about life is exactly what I value in my contemporaries—people who are the antithesis of the characters in The Slap and The Corrections. To which end I can't understand why I'd want to see or even contemplate how that other, boring half live. I know it's boring. End of story.
Both stories concern themselves with suburban familial problems, and in both the plotlines are tortuous and slow. Spending, in the first case, hours, and in the second, months, striving to silence an inner voice that constantly wails, "But who cares?" is a challenge even for the strongest entertainment devotee.
But therein lies the problem: these stories are not entertainment. They're torture.
Why? I think it's the characters. Compare The Slap and The Corrections with other family dramas like The Sopranos. The reason we care about the Soprano family is that we can see something of ourselves in them, and this is amazing, because they're mobsters. We look at Tony or Carmella and think, "These guys are freakin' crazy!" At the same time, we're touched by Tony's almost self-abasing willingness to give basically everyone in his family a break—even those we'd happily counsel him to kill.
Tony's a monster who's more human than we are. By comparison, Breaking Bad's Walt White is a human who's more monster than we are. This kind of character composition makes for intrigue; it sets us up to be moved.
The Slap and The Corrections have "complex" characters, but only within the narrow kaleidoscope of neurosis, self-loathing, self-absorbtion, and apathy. They're monodimensionally complex. All their intricacies lead down the same interminable path: you know nothing interesting can happen by page (or minute) five, because by then each character's utterly uncreative personality has been so clearly laid out. No one's going to do anything noble, or daring, or even halfway self-respecting. Their whole purpose is to exemplify pathetic self-entrapment in myriad repetitive ways, and far too many installments.
Even that makes this genre (if indeed we should call it that) sound more intriguing than it is: these stories simply gild brain-dead, educated, middle-class suburban boredom into "relatable" media products. At best, they are good things to show your children, eyes pinned open, Clockwork Orange-style, with the words, "For Christ's sakes, if you do nothing else, think more creatively about life than these morons."
For modern dramas, they're both appallingly neatly wrapped up in their dying moments, too. Burned bridges are rebuilt, the selfish become more charitable—but always for the goal of self-preservation though the protection of some conservative, idealised status quo.
That status quo sees morbidly dysfunctional families stay together, toxic friendships mindlessly perpetuated, and humans, in general, bowing to convention, obligation, and societal expectation rather than intelligently thinking about what they might need or like, and at least setting out to try and achieve it. Moreover, both stories present their protagonists' actions as strength rather than cowardice and/or outright stupidity.
The capacity for creative thought about life is exactly what I value in my contemporaries—people who are the antithesis of the characters in The Slap and The Corrections. To which end I can't understand why I'd want to see or even contemplate how that other, boring half live. I know it's boring. End of story.
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