A Friendly Deception

I had just taught something called “The Author’s Roundtable” for the Pacific Northwest Writers Association, and while I’d enjoyed it, I was a little disappointed with the turnout. Three people sat around a table with me as I doled out my particular blend of inspiring advice for writers. A week later, I was back at the PNWA’s headquarters, the front of which had been set up for what appeared to be an upcoming class. Four long tables with accompanying chairs faced the teacher’s desk. I counted: the room was set for twenty, the most it could hold.

Pam, the PNWA’s President, was standing nearby.

“What class is this for?” I asked.

“I think he’s calling it, Getting the first page right.”

I shook my head. This was precisely the sort of thing I never taught writers, was not remotely interested in teaching. That summer, I’d given a class called “A Writer’s Inspiration” at the PNWA’s conference, and all of seven people had shown up. Meanwhile, classes on creating relatable protagonists and crafting a perfect query letter were packed.

“I don’t know, Pam. I’m just not sure these folks want what I have to offer.”

Pam shrugged. “Just change what you’re calling it. Make it something they think they want.”

“What, you mean like . . . The Three Questions Every Writer Needs to Answer About Their Story?”

“Yeah, like that.”

“Huh.” I wondered if I could come up with three questions a writer needed to answer about their story. I figured I could.

We offered that class, and when I arrived to teach it, I found four long tables filled with students. The class was really no different than what I’d been teaching before. The three questions I’d come up with (I don’t even remember what they were) simply served as a framework for me to talk about the emotional and spiritual challenges of writing – a conversation, it turns out, these students were eager to have.

Pam’s advice that day helped me better understand what we call marketing. I wasn’t trying to deceive anyone by disguising my class as a sturdy lesson on craft. Instead, I was offering something I believed was new but in a familiar packaging. Most people, myself included, don’t really know what they want. They know they want more of something, that they want to be happy, that they want to thrive, but beyond that the details quickly get fuzzy.

I don’t like fuzziness, and so I will tend to fall back on things I’ve known and trusted in the past to find what I’m looking for. But that’s never what I really want. I want the new thing, the discovery, the evolution. If it’s new, I can’t see it, I can only feel it and imagine it. Still, when that new thing actually arrives in my life, it’s never exactly what I was expecting – yet I’m glad for it just the same, as it too quickly becomes a part of the familiar.

If you like the ideas and perspectives expressed here, feel free to contact me about individual coaching and group workshops.

William KenowerWriting, William Kenower, Teaching, MarketingComment