I hate self-promotion. I mean having to do it for my own work, not someone else doing it for theirs. Unfortunately, at this moment in my chosen industry, there is no way around it. It’s like a plague upon the profession. Or a virus. Once upon a time, agents and editors handled these unseemly details, leaving writers to do what they do best: write. Those have become the misty days of yore.
Like many writers, I am a fairly serious introvert. I don’t like drawing attention. I’m not comfortable in crowds. Heck, I don’t much tolerate loud noises. That’s a product of how I was raised. Ironically, I prefer to demonstrate my abilities through actions, not words. Words lie. Actions, less so.
Before I was a writer, I worked as an engineer. A couple years before I became fully reformed, one of my managers shipped me off to Team Member training, along with a few other engineers from our project that management deemed in need of re-education. Ok, in fairness, maybe we were in a slow time and they were just taking advantage of overhead funds.
The piece de resistance of this training was a Team Building exercise. The challenge was simple. After buying components from a list, things like masking tape, sheets of paper, paper clips, paper cups, string, each with their own listed price, a team had to design and build a bridge between two conference tables that would hold as many reams of paper as possible. The instructor had the copier boxes lined up, I forget how exactly many but several dozen reams. She had a secret formula to determine the winner based on the cost of the bridge and the number of reams it held before it gave way.
She gave us a teaser before the exercise, telling us how one of the bridges in the training session she’d been jetted off to, somewhere much more elegant than a manufacturing building conference room, had won by withstanding all the reams without breaking. She wouldn’t say how it was done, but she didn’t expect any of our teams could equal that feat. Not the gauntlet to throw down before a bored and mildly annoyed engineer.
She told us to form up into four-person teams however we wanted. There were nine of us from our isolated project housed in a remote building. So in that ancient ritual I was all too familiar with, I found myself the only one without a team, the kid always picked last for any sport. I ended up on a team with three type-A personalities from the main building who were their own established clique.
The instructor explained the exercise at the end of the day and showed us the list with prices for each component. So I went home and started thinking about it. In the middle of the night, an idea came to me. It focused on only two components, sheets of paper and masking tape. The tape was expensive but paper was cheap. I remembered reading that paper (unless wet or torn) has a lot of strength if reinforced. And even masking tape, if pulled along its axis of attachment, has a great deal of grip. On a note card in a holder I kept beside the bed, I sketched out my idea in diagrams including identifying critical points and weaknesses. Content, I went back to sleep confidant I was ready to present it in the morning.
The next day, we were given an hour to test out our ideas with sample components, each team in isolation. We gathered up our supplies and trudged off to a different conference room. Once there, the other three weren’t keen on discussing the problem. No one else had any real ideas. No one else had given it any thought overnight. They were more interested in gossiping or griping about the exercise.
Once we got on track, I told them my idea. The meeting immediately devolved back into chaos. It would never work. The paper and tape would never hold. I was shouted down before I even got a chance to fully explain or defend it, contrary to our training. Although no one had any other clear-cut starting point, mine was promptly voted off the table. Then they started arguing, each trying to claim the spotlight with some ill-conceived but suddenly cherished idea.
While they bickered back and forth, I brought together a desk and shelf about the same height. Using the samples we’d been given, I taped a sheet of paper between them. We didn’t have reams of paper but I found some phone books. So I snagged the third guy, who was watching by now, to lean on the shelf and keep it from tipping over. Then I stacked two phone books on the paper. It held without a reinforcement. He called over to the other two.
Silence.
Even after that demonstration, they insisted taking ownership of the idea by building support pillars in the center of the free-swinging span. I tried to explain they would serve no purpose except to burn more money, but tired of arguing (and outvoted again), I accepted the compromise, just as our training indicated. Anything to get it done. We diagramed out what we needed to do and called it a day.
At the end of the third and final day of training, each of the teams bought their supplies, then built their bridges simultaneously. The others let me take the lead, as if to distance themselves, dubious once again the idea would work. They really wanted to back out but couldn’t. One of them almost didn’t show up. I directed the construction based on the plan we’d agreed upon. Even then, they were more interested in reinforcing their support pillars than building the main bridge.
Because it was a simple design, we were one of the first teams to finish. Looking around, I noticed people from my project glancing over, whispering and pointing, frowning and shaking their heads. It’ll never work. I just turned away. We’ll see.
Soon we started loading paper. I forget where we went in order, in the middle somewhere. Someone handed me reams as I laid them flat on the decking to ensure there was no torque or potential for a tear. We got half the reams loaded up when the support pillars collapsed with a sound like a gunshot. Our anchor tables jumped six inches closer as the bridge dropped a good foot under the weight.
And held.
I knew then that we had the instructor’s perfect record in hand, so I flew through loading the remaining reams much faster than she liked. Once the bridge was fully loaded, I stood back and waited. It just hung there, perfectly. The room went quiet. The instructor was stunned. Even my teammates stood slack-jawed. The instructor called time and I unloaded it, just as fast so the next team could go.
No other bridge held that day. No other came close. We won the competition without a problem. Though I was pleased, I didn’t say a word. No trash talk. No rubbing it in. No in-your-face grins or high fives. Just another day at the office. I accepted what congratulations came with a thank you, a shrug and a smile. I told them it was a team effort. Then I left. Alone.
Now some people might think I missed the point of the exercise. Perhaps. But they probably have never seen me run a meeting or elicit ideas. Or lead a team, and later a team of leads. Or revive two different organizations from the brink of extinction to where they were thriving years after I was gone. Or ensure a group of friends in varying physical condition all made it to a landmark a mile down a cobblestone, sand and drift log beach, sometimes by picking the easiest path, sometimes by helping stragglers overcome the obstacles.
I understand the stated goal that day was not winning but working together. In my mind it was working together to come up with the best possible design. Engineering is about design just as much as teamwork. Self-promotion shouldn’t enter into success in that field, but like any job, it does.
In writing, the sheer volume of self-promotion on social media right now reminds me of a stanza from “Language is a Virus” by Laurie Anderson:
“And there was a beautiful view
But nobody could see
Cause everybody on the island
Was screaming: Look at me! Look at me!”
That style of self-promotion is something I’ve never mastered. I prefer to lead by example, not by shouting for attention. It’s not so much what I was taught as what I learned as the only way for a geeky introvert to survive. I’m comfortable with my abilities. I just don’t see the point of having to shout people down in order to be heard. It’s not worth my energy or time. I’d much rather let my words speak for themselves than spam my way through Facebook and Twitter.
We each define success differently. Mine is not based on money or fame, though a little validation would nice. All I really want is for people to read and enjoy my stories. Maybe one day, the right individual will come along who knows how to cut through all the noise. Maybe one day, I’ll be able to get more eyes to the page.
Until then, all I can do is keep writing to the best of my ability. And remember to take in view outside my office window as I keep moving forward.
© 2012 Edward P. Morgan III
"Self-Promotion" - a reading (on YouTube)
