Crutchfield Audio: A Company That Understands Customer Service

We drive old cars. The newest vehicle in our family fleet is a 2001 Honda Odyssey with manual sliding doors. Our budget is tight, so we tend to keep our cars until they have to be sustained by extraordinary measures (something other than duct tape and wire hangers). As long as the old girl can get us from point A to point B, we’ll hold on to her, even if she’s wheezing and limping a bit. This requires a lot of self-maintenance, but the absence of car payments allows us to throw a heftier chunk of our monthly income at other things—such as a more spacious house, healthier food, educational expenses, cigars, single-malt Scotch, and other necessities.

My son gets around in a 1995 Honda Accord graciously donated by his grandparents. It’s still in good shape, but the factory stereo system lost its appeal some time ago. With a built-in cassette deck, no smartphone hookup, and speakers that do to music what a coffee grinder does to beans, it entered its twilight years when “W” was in his first term. So we decided to embark on a stereo-upgrade journey.

First order of business: Determine a budget. My son would be spending his own money, so he wanted to stay under $400 for a decent system (head unit and four speakers). Next, obtain some advice on how, what, and where to buy. The last time I purchased an after-market car stereo, I was a teenager—long before the invention of the Internet, electricity, tools, or the wheel. I would require some guidance this time around. When starting from scratch on a purchase like this, I usually consult a few “buying guides” on the Internet. Buying guides don’t tell you everything, but they’re great at providing the big picture of the process, as well as the main considerations you need to mull over before shopping. Think of buying guides as the wide end of the shopping funnel. Just be sure you consult a current guide; otherwise, you’ll miss out on the latest products, features, technology, and trends.

To further narrow our options, we started with the professional- vs. self-installation question. Since we wanted a quality name-brand system for the lowest possible price, we decided to self-install. We opted, therefore, to confine our search to online retailers, since we assumed the prices would be better than at brick-and-mortar venues. We were slightly anxious about tearing into the dashboard, yanking out a wad of wires, and reconnecting everything correctly. The last thing we wanted was to switch on the stereo and receive a blast from the heater, especially in summer. We hoped, however, to find some online help with installation as well as with products.

Amazon was our first stop. Our thinking was that even if we didn’t buy from them, the reviews were thorough and plentiful, and we could at least see what was popular. Same with Best Buy’s site, which we also included in our search. It didn’t take long to whittle down our list of options (again, thanks to a limited budget). We avoided touch-screen systems, built-in GPS, and expensive component speakers. We found that for $350 to $375, we could acquire a name-brand head unit with HD radio, CD player, Bluetooth, auxiliary connector, station preset buttons, connectors for an amplifier (if we wanted to add one later), and other useful features, as well as a set of four two-way coaxial speakers.

After several hours of perusing products and reviews, though, it seemed like something was missing. The process felt disjointed, for one thing. We were jumping around a lot, cobbling together a system in no particular order—like shopping at the grocery store without a list.

You’ve done this, right? You scurry off to Wal Mart with an idea of what you need, but then you end up hopping all over the store, backtracking and hitting the same aisles. If, however, you use your handy grocery app, which lists the items you need by aisle, you start your journey at one end of the store and finish at the other—flowing through the task without wasting any effort. Smooth. Seamless. Streamlined. Simple. So far, that wasn’t our experience.

Part of the problem was that we weren’t 100% sure the products we were interested in would fit my son’s vehicle. Some of the information was sketchy regarding which products fit which cars. Additionally, after-market installation—especially on older cars—often requires adapters, harnesses, head unit cages, speaker brackets, and other items for a a flush and functional fit. Did our car need any of these items? Which ones? How many? Where should we look for them? We didn’t know.

That’s when we ran across Crutchfield Audio’s website (www.crutchfield.com). Man, these guys know what they’re doing! Their entire site is ostensibly built around two primary goals: 1) helping customers find the exact products for their specific vehicle and 2) alleviating customers’ angst about self-installation. Navigation is intuitive, components are easy to find, and a knowledgeable and helpful agent is only a chat window away if you need some input. There’s also a Learning Center replete with product demos, installation videos, and downloadable guides.

But here’s the real clincher: That fragmented feeling I described earlier? It disappeared on crutchfield.com. Our shopping experience was smooth and seamless. We began by entering our vehicle make and year into the Outfit My Car wizard, and up popped a page that listed the Accord’s existing factory components, including the size of the head unit (single DIN, double DIN, etc.) and the configuration (location and dimension) of the speakers.

From that page, we were able to jump into the shopping flow for head units, speakers, whatever we wanted to see—and we were only shown  products that were compatible with our vehicle. We were able to view summaries, stats, reviews, photos, and more.  And, again, the chat option was always there if we had questions along the way.

We actually visited crutchfield.com three times before ordering, chatting with a different agent each time. Immediately after each visit, we received a friendly thank-you email from the agent, along with a full transcript of the chat. When I finally placed the order online, I was prompted to select the agent who helped me (I assume, for the purpose of assigning credit for the sale). I simply reviewed the transcripts and selected the agent with whom I had chatted the longest.

As I assembled my online shopping cart, I noticed that some items had been added that I didn’t remember selecting, i.e., a trim kit for the head unit and electrical harnesses for both the head unit and the speakers. These pieces were necessary for installation in my specific vehicle, and they were added automatically. I would have paid around $30 for these if I had shopped for them separately, but Crutchfield included them with the order at no extra charge. Then, when my order confirmation arrived by email, there was an attachment labeled Master Sheet. This contained step-by-step installation instructions—again, for my specific vehicle. We were able to review these before the system arrived.

Once we started installation, if we hit a snag that the Master Sheet didn’t address, we called Crutchfield’s tech support line, which is set up to help the customer unravel installation quandaries. I must have called this line half a dozen times, and I don’t remember waiting for an agent more than a minute at most (which was also the case, by the way, with their Customer Support department). Every person I talked to was articulate, knowledgeable, helpful, and seemingly appreciative of my business.

Nobody, however, is perfect. Mid-installation, we discovered that the pair of oval 6 x 9 speakers we ordered for the rear deck wouldn’t fit (even though the website said they would). I could have made them fit, if I had been willing to engage in a major construction project, which I wasn’t. I called Crutchfield’s tech support line to see if there was an easier customization solution, and there wasn’t. The tech agent and I decided together that the best option was to install the same 6 1/2″ speakers in the rear that we had installed in the front door panels. He immediately put in an order for these (note: this was taken care of by the tech support agent, without his having to transfer me to the customer service department) and emailed me a return authorization and shipping label for the oval speakers. The new speakers arrived in a couple days, and as soon as the returns hit Crutchfield’s dock, they credited my son’s account $50, since the new speakers were less expensive than the ones we originally purchased.

So, the stereo is installed and the tunes are cranking. And thanks to Crutchfield, we felt as though the entire experience—from initial shopping to screwing down the final speaker cover—was all about us. Sure, we could have acquired the same system from another online retailer for $30-$40 less. But the quality of service and the free installation equipment we received more than made up for the difference. No surprise that Crutchfield has been in business for 40 years!

We drive old vehicles. But thanks to Crutchfield, one of them now has a new lease on life. My son would tell you the same thing . . . if I could ever get him out of the car.

Creativity and Business: A Good and Necessary Coexistence

Let’s be honest.

Business acumen and creative insight are often considered separate spheres that overlap only occasionally. It’s a common occurrence for, say, a financial analyst and a website designer, each pondering the other’s job description, to exclaim, “I could never do what you do!” And they might be right.

Personal inclinations aside, however, business and creativity belong together. What ad campaign doesn’t have as its goal an increase in sales? What artist doesn’t hope to draw some kind of income from his paintings? Who ever heard of a musician who doesn’t care whether people buy her music? And don’t product designers yearn for fanatically loyal customers, who can’t wait to get their hands on the latest version?

Don’t get me wrong. We right-brain creative types are motivated by more than profit. We love crafting things. We’re energized by the creative process. We’re bursting with the need to express ourselves. And, since there is no such thing as too much beauty or clarity in the world, we feel compelled to keep both flowing.

Yet, I think most of us realize that if what we create connects with people, they’ll buy it. The just-right creative message crafted on behalf of business should benefit that business’s bottom line. So, business sense and artistic sensibility really can, and should, coexist happily. It’s possible for the manager and the muse to play nice. Sometimes, the two even reside in the same person.

As a right-brain type, I don’t think the bottom line should drive each and every creative decision like a whip-wielding taskmaster. On the other hand, we should never embark on a creative adventure without a business compass.

The Lost Treasure of Customer Service

As a consumer who appreciates — but only occasionally experiences — excellent customer service, I can relate to archaeologist-adventurer Indiana Jones. In the quest for the rare jewel of outstanding service, the moments are few and far between that I actually get to curl my eager fingers around that elusive treasure. Sad, because customer service was once something companies expected their employees to provide, and something consumers expected to receive. These days it’s so uncommon that, when we do receive it, it’s as though we’ve stumbled in the sand and inadvertently unearthed the bust of Nefertiti.

I’m not talking about an elaborate red carpet treatment. Or fluff. Or bells and whistles. No one expects to be handed a free latte’ when they walk into Walmart, or even to have their groceries carried out for them (although there are still a few places that do this). And let’s be realistic. Not every department store is going to feel like Nordstrom. Nor will every online merchant attain Zappos status. But could we at least have, gee, I don’t know, a few employees who give a rip about whether or not we found what we came for? How about a clerk who rises above mere mumbling and engages in semi-intelligent conversation? Can we please get a salesperson who knows something more about his product than, “We’re out of those.” Is all this too much to ask? Apparently, most of the time, it is. Customer service providers who genuinely care about their customers are ostensibly as rare as Aztec gold.

Lest you think I exaggerate, allow me to share a recent shoe-shopping experience. My son was in dire need of new footwear. He required running shoes, a pair of cross trainers for court sports, and some brown slip-ons to wear with jeans or khakis. For some odd reason I still can’t explain, he wanted me to come along as a wardrobe consultant. You’ll understand my perplexity when I tell you that I long ago entered the “comfort over style” stage of life. My motto is, “If it feels good, looks like it might have been designed for a human, and doesn’t get you arrested, wear it.” Nevertheless, we set out to brave the local mall.

At our first stop, an upscale sporting goods store, we instantly spied a pair of New Balance cross trainers that looked pretty good. Nice and snug. Low arches. On sale. We snagged ’em. Running shoes were another story. My son’s feet aren’t the easiest to fit. He has virtually no arch, and one foot is considerably longer than the other. Since he was going to be pounding the concrete for thirty minutes or more five days a week, they had to cradle his feet just right. We had found his last pair of running shoes after a week-long excursion to every shoe store in the area. We didn’t see that particular model on display, so we asked a salesman for some input.

Without asking a single question about my son’s biomechanics (e.g., “Are you a mild or severe pronator?” “Do you usually run in a guidance shoe or full support shoe?”), he simply asserted, “You’ll need a support shoe; I’d go with one of these.” Wow, a confident recommendation without any probing or discussion about what we wanted or needed in a shoe. Listening between the lines, I heard something like this: “We’re crazy busy, guys. I really don’t have time to discover your needs or preferences. I don’t even really care what brands you’ve tried in the past. Just buy something — preferably one of our most expensive models — and be on your way.” We opted to hold off on running shoes until we could visit a local running store, where the salespeople typically know something about, you know, running and shoes. To that guy’s credit, though, he at least made eye contact and spoke to us, which is more than I can say for the next employee we encountered.

With cross trainers in hand, we approached the cash register (still in the sporting goods store). The line wasn’t short; we waited a good ten minutes to reach the cashier. My son, a friendly guy, greeted the cashier with a smile and a “Hello,” and handed over the box. No response. Crickets. The cashier scanned the box’s code, mumbled the total, bagged the merchandise, and handed the bag to my son. He never asked if we found everything we were looking for, how our day was going, etc. No “Have a nice day,” “Come back and see us,” nothing. I’ve received more human interaction from Siri.

At our next stop, a major department store, we wound our way through a labyrinth of loafers, until my son found a pair he wanted to try. There was not, however, a salesperson in sight. Granted, it was a Saturday, so the store was busy — but we were the only two people in the shoe area. Then we figured out the problem. The men’s suit department was adjacent to the shoe department. Apparently, a suit try-on session had attracted the attention of several employees, including the shoe salesmen.

We walked over to the crowd of onlookers, my son holding a display shoe in his hand. Finally, one of the employees turned and looked at us. That’s all, just looked at us. Apparently he was waiting for us to utter the secret password that would initiate customer service. “Do you have these in a size nine?” my son asked. The guy took the shoe from him, looked inside it, and responded, “This is a nine.” That’s it. That’s all we could get out of him. I’m not making this up. As we continued this little game of Make the customer guess what the salesperson is thinking, I asked, “So you want him to try on the display model?” “Yes,” was the single-syllable answer.

Stay with me; it gets better. As my son sat down to try on the display shoes, it was obvious that he was having trouble getting into one of them. The same guy, Mr. Chatty, noticed my son struggling and started towards him. At last, I thought, we’re going to get some attention. When he finally arrived (he was in no hurry), the salesperson thrust out a long shoehorn and said (again, I’m not making this up), “Here.” That’s it. Not “Let me give you a hand with that” or “How about a shoehorn; much easier that way.” Nope. Just “Here.” Well, we catch on pretty quick. We concluded that other questions we might pose, such as, “Do these come in black?” would drive this dude’s conversation meter into the red zone, causing his head to explode. All was not lost, though. This encounter gave me a great idea for a screenplay: Zombie Shoe Salesmen. They’re here to serve you — for dinner.

Off to store number three, another department store, where we did happen upon a salesperson with a pulse. “Do you have these in a nine?” asked my son. “Let me check for you,” replied the employee. Hope was kindled, and then extinguished. He returned to announce, “We don’t have that size; sorry,” then immediately turned to assist other shoppers. Once could almost hear the air rushing out of our balloon. Good feeling gone. We looked at a few more display models, but most of them were made in China and looked like they would hold up pretty well until you actually walked on them. Apathetic service. Anemic selection. Time to move on.

Our last stop for the day was yet another department store. It wasn’t Nordstrom, but it did exude a friendlier atmosphere than the previous stores. We knew we were in for a different experience when the salesperson smiled, said “Let me check on that for you,” and headed for the stock room. Back she came, balancing a teetering tower of boxes. “We don’t have your size in the shoe you wanted to see,” she said, “but I brought out a few similar styles in your size and price range that you might like.” After a day of dealing with employees who elevated apathy to high art, here was someone who really cared about meeting our needs — and who knew how to engage customers. After comparing several styles and fits, my son settled on a pair of classy brown slip-ons. We complimented the lady on her excellent service and went on our merry way, lamenting the scarcity of such positive experiences. That lady was a real treasure. But treasures are treasures, because they are so rare.

If our shoe-shopping odyssey is a microcosm of the shopping experience in general (and I think it is), why is good customer service the exception these days? I’ve come up with several reasons, most of them based on observation rather than hard data. I’ll save a thorough treatment of those for another post, but I have to think that near the top of the list would be reasons like our culture of self-absorption, a technology-induced devaluing of conversation, and the erosion of common courtesy.

Whatever the causes, the effects are palpable, and companies everywhere are missing countless opportunities to stand out from the crowd and train their employees to engage and delight customers. Aha! New screenplay idea: Indiana Jones and the Trainers of the Lost Art. Maybe? Possibly? Anyone?

Crickets.

Lessons from The Artist

I recently watched The Artist on DVD. I had already seen it in the theater with my daughter (we both loved it), so I was anxious to know what my wife and son thought about it. They found it moving, mesmerizing, daring, clever, and worthy of its best picture Oscar. Amazing, isn’t it, that a silent film can win best picture 85 years after The Jazz Singer, the first feature talkie? Even more astounding is that such a film could hold the attention of two teenagers from beginning to end, even prompting my son to remark, “That’s one of the best films I’ve seen this year.”

There are many reasons to appreciate and enjoy The Artist: story, acting, music, cinematography, sparse but imaginative use of sound, etc. In fact, a few scenes in this film will live on as some of the most poignant moments in movie history. I’ll never forget the image of pedestrians hurrying through the rain and unwittingly trampling a poster promoting George Valentin’s unpopular movie. Or Peppy’s whimsical encounter with Valentin’s tuxedo in his dressing room. Or that electrifying tap-dance finale. These belong alongside such enduring images as the “Here’s looking at you, kid” scene in Casa Blanca, the crop duster’s pursuit of Cary Grant in North by Northwest, and a tuxedo-clad Godfather discussing “business” in his study.

The Artist, however, offers more than just images. It offers lessons. Lessons on how to live, how to succeed, how to communicate. Here are just a few:

Adapt or die.

George Valentin was indeed an artist, but he was also a purist. He failed to accept that times were changing. Technology was advancing, and the audience was yearning for this new phenomenon of “talkies.” Valentin wrongly assumed that adapting to change would mean betraying his artistry. He chose to eschew new technology and keep his feet firmly planted in the silent era.

But people were flocking to the talkies (especially films that featured Peppy Miller, the girl whose career Valentin helped launch), and they ignored Valentin’s most recent silent movie. As Peppy’s career ascended, George’s descended. Then along came the Great Depression, plunging him into bankruptcy. His failure to adapt sent his career into a seemingly unrecoverable tailspin.

Think of all the technology to which we’ve had to adapt, just in the past ten years. What if you refused to carry a cell phone or use email? What if you shunned the computer, because you thought it ruined artistic penmanship? Consider movies nowadays. Can you imagine anyone today thinking that the only legitimate medium for special effects is stop-action photography? The old Ray Harryhausen monsters, jerkily swiping at vehicles or grasping at fleeing warriors, were magical in their day. But they were the forerunners of more advanced and realistic CGI effects.

Don’t get me wrong. I still pick up a pen and hand-write a note now and then. And I’m a huge claymation fan (the works of Nick Park and Aardman Animations come to mind: Wallace and Gromit, Chicken Run, etc.). But these fill a novelty niche. Ironically, The Artist is a silent film that tells a story about the demise of silent films. It works, and it’s wonderful. Just don’t look for silent films to become mainstream. Technology marches on.

I once watched a special on the making of The Wizard of Oz and was amazed at how they pulled off the effects. The tornado, for example, was a giant sheet of muslin cloth shaped into a cone and connected to machinery that caused it to jerk and twist. I marveled at the imagination and ingenuity that scene required. Moviemakers had to use whatever was lying around; they couldn’t just create something ex nihilo on the computer. Yet, if The Wizard of Oz was being made today, I can’t imagine the effects crew refusing to use CGI because it somehow inhibited their artistry.

My point is that adapting to technology doesn’t necessarily mean the end of artistry. Even “hands-on” artists, such as painters and sculptors, display their works on the web. Technology doesn’t have to rule us, but it can serve us. Even us creative types.

There’s a business application here, too. Think of once-great companies with innovative products (BlackBerry, America Online, Blockbuster, Kodak, and others), who failed to adapt to shifts in the market and changes in consumer habits. George Valentin has a warning for us all, artist and businessperson alike: Adapt or die!

Care about People.

Hollywood is big business; always has been. Studio bosses, especially in the early days of moviemaking, have been known to be downright ruthless at times. What makes The Artist so charming is that the characters, especially Peppy Miller, really care about people. Peppy could have jumped on the fast train to success and left George alone at the station—and no one would have batted an eye. After all, that’s how the biz goes.

Peppy, however, does the unexpected. Throughout the film, she is constantly trying to help George, keep him involved in the industry he loves, and keep him from losing everything—especially his self-worth. In the end, it is her unflagging friendship that puts him back on the screen, and back in the business. It’s the happiest movie ending I’ve seen in years.

An executive I respect recently retired from the telecommunications company for whom I work. As people reacted to the news, it was clear that most of them hated to see him go. Those who worked closely with him summed up his career this way: “Brilliant guy. Hard worker. Really cared about people.”

Just as technology doesn’t necessitate the loss of artistry, neither does success mean we have to stop caring about people.

Tell a great story.

Everyone has a story to tell. Novelists. Moviemakers. Companies. Employees. Everyday people. The current advice from career counselors is that your resume’ should be more than just information; it should tell a story. It should take prospective employers on a journey—the journey of you. One sage suggested that a resume’ should clearly portray a character who’s involved in a plot, should reach a high point, and yet leave the impression that there’s more of the story to be written.

So, anyone with a story to tell can learn something from The Artist. George Valentin travels from riches to rags to riches. From success to failure to success. From pride to humility to gratefulness. From purist to realist. And every stage of the journey is a feast for the senses. I’ll never forget the scene that takes place in the offices of Kinograph Studios. George has just left a meeting in which it became clear that the studio’s executives are moving into the era of talkies—without him. As he descends the staircase, he runs into Peppy, now Kinograph’s new rising star. As they talk, Peppy is standing above George on the landing, while he is several steps below her. It’s a visual reminder that her career is on the way up, while his is on the way down.

The images, action, dialogue, emotion, even the silence, are there to serve the story. I would rather see a silent film like The Artist—a masterfully told story—than any disjointed, plot-deficient, CGI-laden assault on the senses.

Stories are all around us. They’re in our resume’s, corporate brands, family histories, dreams and goals. Do you know your story? Are you telling it? The Artist offers a lesson for all of us: Tell your story, tell it with skill, and make it memorable.

If you haven’t yet seen The Artist—perhaps because you just can’t imagine sitting through a silent film—pick up the DVD. You might be surprised at how much you like it. You might even enjoy it so much, you won’t be able to keep silent about it.

Thinking outside the Big Box

Today’s lesson on creative customer service comes from a place you might not expect: Costco. To me, Costco and other “big box” stores have always been about two things—volume and price. I frequent the cavernous retailer because they stock stuff by the pallet, and because most of the items I use are more-than-reasonably priced. I really don’t expect to be pampered there. Nor do I expect the company to go out of its way to make me happy. Just stock what I need at a decent price, hire competent people to point me in the right direction, and don’t stalk me with in-store specials (no, I do not want to buy the Stamp-zilla deal–a pallet-full of Forever postage stamps that locks in the price of mailing a letter until the year 2099, or until the use of paper is illegal, whichever comes first). 

Last Saturday, however, Costco pampered me. On the way to shop there, my wife and I pulled into the Costco gas station; we were running on fumes. When I got out of the vehicle, a friendly attendant greeted me. He said, “I just want to let you know that we’re out of regular; all we have is premium.”

Disappointment ensued , and my brain started to run through a list of options: 1) leave immediately, and hope I had enough gas to get us to the store and then to a station that had regular gas, 2) put in a gallon or two of premium to last me until the next station, or 3) try to convince the attendant that, since I’m paying more for gas than I had planned, he should fill the tank, clean my windshield, and check the oil.

An option that never entered my mind was filling the tank with premium gas . . . until the attendant finished what he wanted to say. “Because of the inconvenience,” he went on, “we’ve marked down our premium to $2.99.”

“Oh, that’s okay, I’ll just”—Whoa! Did he just say what I think he said?

“Best deal in town,” he continued. “Premium  for less than regular.”

He wasn’t kidding. There it was, right on the pump: $2.99 a gallon—for premium! I don’t remember the exact figures, but I think regular was about $3.19, and premium was running around $3.39. So, they were offering premium  for 20 cents less than regular!

Let that soak in for a minute. Imagine how other businesses might have responded to this dilemma: “Sorry, we’re out of regular” (no other options), or “All we have is premium” (again, no offer to appease), or possibly “ Sorry, we’re out of regular, but we’ll sell you premium for the same price as regular.”

I would have been happy with that last option. But Costco even went beyond that. They surpassed what the typical shopper would expect and swung for the fences. And it paid off for them, at least in my case. Because of our budget, and what I knew we were about to spend on groceries, I hadn’t planned to fill up my tank. If they had lowered the premium price to match the regular, that’s the price I was going to pay anyway. But at $2.99 a gallon—for premium—I’m filling that puppy to the brim!

Let this be a lesson to companies who take a “bare necessities” approach to customer service, who respond to every problem as though it’s the customer’s fault, or who organize their days around what’s easiest for the company but not for the customer. At least on this particular day, Costco made me feel as though the experience was all about me. They went beyond what I expected. They surprised me, delighted me. They did what every company should do—go the extra mile (or the extra gallon) to create a superb and memorable customer experience.

Because of that experience, I’m not just a customer; I’m a fan. A promoter. A cheerleader. Heck, I even wrote an article about it.  Come to think of it, I might drop a note to the president of Costco. Now, where did I put those stamps?

Reflecting and Resolving

The revolving door of the holidays has come to a stop, and we’ve stepped into the lobby of a brand new year. During the past week, you’ve probably done one or more of the following:  1) packed up your holiday decorations, 2) sent your relatives home, 3) exchanged the sweater that would have fit if you hadn’t eaten an entire cherry pie by yourself, 4) said to your kids more than once, “Suck it up, moaners; school is back in session,” 5) reflected on 2011, 6) made resolutions for 2012.

I’ve done all the above, except I avoided number 3 (it was actually an apple pie). The last two items on the list, however—reflecting and resolving—especially intrigue me. This time of year, I like to take a look behind me before moving on. I take some time to reflect on the events that impacted our world and culture, remember my personal success and failures, count my blessings, take note of where I need to improve, and so on.

As part of the reflection stage, I might scour the Internet for those “Year in Review” pieces. You’ll find them everywhere, and from every perspective: world news, politics, technical achievements, entertainment, even humor. If you want to start 2012 with a hilarious recap of 2011, check out Dave Barry’s “2011 Year in Review” here.

Call me morbid, but I even like to visit those “celebrity death” sites to see who passed away during the previous year. This exercise brings to mind three important truths: 1) one person really can make a difference (for good or ill), 2) our days are numbered, so we should make them count, and 3) we should be able to trade James Arness or Harry Morgan for the Kardashians.

Anyway, moving from reflection to resolution, I don’t make an impossibly long list, or set the bar up to the stratosphere (I know, for example, that I will never completely ditch caffeine or sugar). Rather, I try to focus on the non-negotiables—such as maintaining good health (physical, mental, spiritual, financial); enriching my family life; setting personal and professional goals; etc. Beyond that, I try to set a creative goal or two—such as writing on a new topic, trying my hand at drawing, discovering a new author or some new music, etc.

Not in the habit of setting creative goals for yourself? Ah, well, if you’re still putting together your 2012 resolutions, throw one or two of these into the mix:

1. Read one book you wouldn’t normally read. For example, if your diet consists mainly of material that pertains to your profession, take a break and lose yourself in a mystery or science fiction novel. Or, if fiction is your mental main course, try wrapping your brain around an introductory philosophy or theology text. Sure, theology’s a tougher read, but just think of it: you’ll be the only one at cocktail parties throwing around works like infralapsarian.
2. Write a poem. There’s nothing better than sweating over a sonnet or haiku to teach you about the beauty and economy of speech. It will improve your everyday writing, no matter your profession or style.
3. Draw, even if you think you can’t. A sketch pad and introductory drawing text are all you need. Take your time, the whole year if you want. But draw something. Be patient with yourself. A great place to start is with Betty Edwards’ Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain materials. Check out the website dedicated to her theory and method at www.drawright.com. If you need some encouragement, peruse the online gallery while you’re there. You’ll be amazed at what “non-artistic” types have been able to produce.
4. Discover some new music. If you’re not yet familiar with Pandora, the online music discovery app, give it a try. You can download it on your computer, smartphone or tablet. You simply think of a musician whose music you enjoy—say, Adele—then create an online “station” based on Adele, and Pandora finds and plays Adele and any other artists who sound like her. Thanks to Pandora, I now listen to dozens of artists I never knew existed. You can also create genre-specific stations, such as “smooth jazz” and “classical.” Go ahead, open up Pandora. It’s even more enticing and surprising that Forrest Gump’s box of chocolates.
5. Make a short movie. Use all those stills and videos you’ve taken with your smartphone to cobble together a three-minute movie. A Mac and iMovie make it easy and intuitive for any amateur to combine images, music, titles, etc., for a professional-looking finished product. If you use a PC, Microsoft Moviemaker will do the job, but a little less seamlessly than the Mac.
6. Make your PowerPoint presentations a work of art. Resolve once and for all to make your PowerPoint presentations less cluttered and more compelling. Just Google “better powerpoint,” and you’ll have plenty of help. Think, design, and practice when the pressure’s off and you have the time. Then, when the floor is yours, you’ll wow people like never before. A book that forever changed my approach to PowerPoint was The Presentation Secrets of Steve Jobs: How to Be Insanely Great in Front of Any Audience.
7. Take a crack at making your own pottery. Check your town or city for a studio that will take you through every stage of the process—from glob to glaze. Think of the possibilities! No more small coffee cups that require re-filling. You can craft your own gallon drum with a handle on it! Or, as Starbucks would call it, a godzillatte!

Well, that’s a start, anyway. Good luck, and happy new year!

Now, this is how to market a movie!

If you want a lesson on how to build anticipation for an event, check out this new teaser poster for The Dark Knight Rises, the final chapter of the Batman trilogy scheduled for release in summer 2012.

Makes your heart sink. What are we to make of it? Will Batman die? Surely not. Director Christoper Nolan isn’t known for delivering light fare or happy-sappy endings (remember Memento, Insomnia, The Prestige?). But then again, he’s not the Coen brothers, either, who are more than content to let the bad guy win in films like No Country for Old Men.

And we’re talking about the Caped Crusader here. It might do to leave us thinking that Batman died in The Dark Knight (as it is, having Gotham turn on him was hard enough) and then bring him back in the final chapter. But I simply can’t fathom Nolan ending the trilogy with Batman’s demise.

I’m holding out for a happy ending, for Batman’s return and redemption, for loose ends tying together, and for the good guy winning. But I have no doubt that the journey will be a rough one, especially with Bane involved. He’s the hulking brute you see walking away in the poster. He’s a chemically-enhanced one-man wrecking crew. In the comics, Bane broke Batman’s back, paralyzing him.

But the Batman will prevail. On what am I basing my optimism? First of all, look at the text: “The Legend Ends” doesn’t have to mean that Batman dies. The legend does end with this film, meaning that the trilogy ends. The Dark Knight Rises will be the final installment of the Dark Knight legend. Second, what sense does “The Dark Knight Rises” make if he doesn’t get knocked down first? His triumph will be all the more fulfilling if his enemies think they’ve won.

What, then, of the shattered mask? And what does Bane’s ostensibly confident departure signal? Following are the only scenarios I’ll let myself consider:

1. Bane thinks he has killed Batman and walks away. But Batman is only hurt. He’s nursed back to health by Alfred, then rises to defeat Bane and the rest of Gotham’s criminals.
2. The person in the bat suit is killed, but it’s someone else, not Bruce Wayne. With the real Batman having gone rogue, an impostor steps up to try and do Batman’s job—with tragic results. The real Batman, drawn out of hiding by this tragedy, takes on Gotham’s scum and cleans up the city.
3. Batman really does die, but he’s brought back to life by Ra’s al Ghul (who, surprise, survived the train crash in Batman Begins). Ra’s places Bruce in the Lazarus Pit and revives him, after realizing that he and Batman must work together if Gotham is to be saved.
4. Batman is lying injured in a dark, wet corner of the city—dying. A young boy, an orphan, finds him, drags him to safety, and nurses him back to health with the help of friends. Once Batman’s health returns, he trains the boy to be his partner. That’s right—Robin! The two team up to shut down the bad guys.
5. Catwoman is there when Bane crushes Batman. Watching the Dark Knight suffer, she has a change of heart. She regrets being part of the evil that has overtaken the city. Plus, she feels some empathy for Batman, being a troubled character herself. So, she kneels down beside the Caped Crusader, appears to take his pulse, and announces to Bane that he is dead. Bane smugly walks away. In secret, however, Catwoman nurses Batman back to health. Now allies instead of enemies, the two unite to take on Gotham’s crime leaders.

Back to my opening sentence about knowing how to build anticipation. Look at all the speculation (by just one person) generated by one poster. One poster with a powerful image and seven measly words. Want to build some anticipation for an upcoming event, product, or announcement? Maybe the producers of The Dark Knight Rises have something to teach us about combining emotion and simplicity to create a compelling message.

I know what I learned: I’m getting in line early for the first midnight showing of The Dark Knight Rises.

Don’t lose that low-tech creativity!

I have a confession to make.

I still write letters occasionally. The old-fashioned kind. The kind you create by scrawling words on paper with a fountain pen. The kind you crease, fold, slip into an envelope, slap a stamp on, and drop in a mailbox. The kind nobody writes any more. I’ve also been known to doodle and draw.

No, I am not a Luddite. In fact, I’m somewhat of a geek. I enjoy technology and wouldn’t want to live without it. My smartphone is an extension of myself. I would be lost without it (or at the very least, a lot less efficient and productive). But there’s something about working with low-tech media that keeps my right brain active and infuses my life, even my digital life, with creativity.

Maybe it’s the feel of the writing (or drawing) instrument in my hand. Perhaps a pen gliding over paper provides a satisfaction than can’t be experienced when tapping keys or clicking a mouse. Or is it a sense of freedom that I feel—the sensation that my hand can carry out my brain’s wishes immediately, unshackled from computer hardware? I’m not sure how to explain it. I just know that I need to maintain that low-tech connection—in the same way I need to keep real books alongside the Kindle. There’s something about the heft of a bound volume, the texture of the cover, the sound of real pages turning, that immerses me more fully in the story.

Skills like penmanship, pottery-making, drawing, and painting get us down into the trenches of the creative process. They require something besides digital ones and zeros. They require flesh-and-blood digits—fingers that feel, grasp, curl, knead, and shape. I would argue that maintaining such a low-tech connection actually causes us to live more effectively in a high-tech world.

In a commencement address to Standford graduates in 2005, Steve Jobs related how a calligraphy class he once attended provided the inspiration for the beautiful fonts used on the first Macintosh computer. And throughout his amazing career at Apple, Jobs maintained that symbiosis between artistic beauty and technological functionality.

Carmine Gallo, in his book The Presentation Secrets of Steve Jobs: How to be Insanely Great in Front of Any Audience, reveals the ironic truth that Jobs, an icon of the digital world, planned his famous product presentations with pen and paper. Says Gallo, “Steve Jobs has built a reputation in the digital world of bits and bytes, but he creates stories in the very old-world tradition of pen and paper” (p. 3). Gallo goes on to explain that Jobs would storyboard the “plot” of his presentations before ever picking up a “camera” (i.e., the presentation software). Sketching out ideas with pen and paper first has a way of bringing clarity and creativity to the final digital presentation.

And who would think that screenwriting has anything to do with business management? Yet businesspeople of all stripes are paying hundreds of dollars to attend screenwriting workshops by Robert McKee, the author of Story. The art of telling a compelling story in a creative way apparently has its applications in the business world. Think about how such a skill could benefit business: pitching prospective clients, reporting the quarterly numbers, writing up performance reviews, planning and presenting company-wide town halls, advertising and marketing.

I was talking with a co-worker one day about how much I enjoyed writing with fountain pens, and I was lamenting the loss of penmanship as a taught skill. He responded, “You know, computers are never going away. If my kid has to choose between a class on penmanship and one on computers, I know which way I’m going to direct him: computers.”

I understand what he was getting at: If you’re going to survive in the computer age, you have to learn to use computers; stick to pen and paper alone, and you’ll be left in the dust. But why should we have to choose between excellent penmanship and computers—especially when Jobs and others have proven than one can enhance, even inspire, the other?

I’m not saying we should sell our laptops and use the money to buy stationery; I correspond more by email and texting than any other methods. But I still use pen and paper occasionally for notes and letters. And when I’m planning presentations and speeches, I often start by sketching out a graphic or two, connecting thoughts and ideas with lines and arrows, etc. That low-tech approach helps me see where I’m going, helps me experience the journey more fully. And more often than not, it provides the raw material for my digital workshop (i.e., the keyboard and screen).

So, don’t throw away that pen, stationery, and sketch pad just yet. If you haven’t used them in a while, pull them off the shelf, blow off the dust, and try your hand at some old-fashioned writing or drawing next time you’re planning an article, speech, presentation, or project. And let low-tech take your work to new heights.

An example of crisp, clear communication from . . . a podiatrist?

Compile a list of professions that require crisp, clear communication, and podiatrist isn’t likely to be on that list. Well, since yesterday, it’s on mine. Right up there with journalist, attorney, preacher, and teacher.

I’ve always appreciated doctors who excel at packaging diagnosis and treatment options in layman’s terms. But the guy I saw yesterday for nagging toe pain was one pithy physician. In fact, of all the people in his office with whom I came into contact, he was the most pleasant conversationalist. His speech was concise, confident, humorous, and laced with metaphor. By the time I left his office, I had fully understood my problem, thought through the treatment options, and scheduled surgery. To be fair, I had already done my research on the Internet before I saw him. It was, however, encouraging to receive confirmation in such a clear and memorable fashion.

About two years ago I noticed some discomfort in my left big toe after jogging. I just wrote it off to age and the fact that I’ve been running on concrete over half my life. The pain has escalated recently, however, so that it hurts even to walk. After my GP ruled out gout, he recommended a foot specialist.

The podiatrist took a set of X-rays and performed a thorough hands-on exam of my left foot, including a range-of-motion test. First, he explained what I was seeing on each picture. Some pretty nasty stuff! My big toe joint was almost completely filled in with calcium—unlike the other joints, which had plenty of space to move. And growing up and back from the joint was a wicked-looking bone spur. The only thing I can think to compare it to is the dorsal fin of a shark. “That thing is not only hindering movement, it’s probably pressing up against the ligament that runs over the top of the toe,” he explained. “So, you’re getting both stiffness and pain.” He provided the medical term for all this, but that didn’t really matter. It’s basically arthritis of the big toe joint, it hurts like the dickens, and it’s fixable.

So he laid out the options, both non-surgical and surgical. Orthotic inserts, cortisone injections, etc., would manage the pain in the short-term, but structurally the joint would continue to stiffen, and the spur would continue to grow. There were two surgical options. The first was what the doctor called Woodworking 101. “We go into the joint,” he explained, “we take some files and chisels, and we chip away at that spur, clean out the joint, and restore normal movement to the toe.”

“Sounds fun,” I said.

He explained that it would be a day surgery, with a local anesthetic and a Michael Jackson cocktail (I know, twisted but funny). Option 2 was a complete toe joint replacement. “Only advisable for the most severe conditions, and you’re not there yet,” he said. “Besides, while that gets rid of the pain, it permanently limits motion, so you probably wouldn’t be able to run anymore.” He added that surgical option number 1 was a common procedure, and that I would be running again in eight weeks after surgery. “You might have to do it again in 12-15 years, based on my experience,” he said. “But this is probably the best option to get you back to a normal life.”

So, Woodworking 101 it is. I’m scheduled for surgery later this  month. A shame that it’ll be during the holidays, not to mention my vacation time, but I’ve met my insurance deductible for the year. Might as well get ‘er done now.

What’s the point of exposing my metatarsals to the general public? It’s to show once again how important it is to be clear, crisp, concise, creative, and memorable when you communicate—no matter what your profession. You might be an expert in your field, but most of your readers (or clients, patients, customers, etc.) probably aren’t. Sure, it also helps to be good at what you do; no one wants a podiatrist who can turn a phrase but can’t trim an ingrown toenail. But make yourself understandable to those outside your circle of expertise, and you’ll only add to your success.

Gotta run (hobble, rather). I need to go practice for my post-surgery convalescence, which amounts to reclining in front of the TV, snapping my fingers in the air, and shouting out my favorite foods and drinks. There will be lots of people hanging around our house for the Christmas holidays, so I should have plenty of waiters and waitresses. So far, my family isn’t buying in to my grand vision for recovery. They say that if I’m too demanding, I’m likely to be served an extra strong Michael Jackson cocktail.

Steve Jobs and the Impartiality of Creativity

The incredible life of Steve Jobs, which ended on October 5, taught us—and will continue to teach us—many profound lessons. Among them:

• Follow your gut.
• Great ideas, no matter how crazy they sound to everyone else, are worth fighting for.
• Design matters every bit as much as functionality—in fact, the two are inseparable.
• It takes more work to be simple than it does to be complicated.
• The Beatles were as much a paradigm for business as they were a model for musicians.
• If you have to choose between art school and LSD . . . (well, never mind).

If I may add another, Jobs’ life taught us that when it comes to occupations, creativity is impartial.

Have you ever caught yourself saying (or heard others say), “I’m just not the creative type?” That statement might be true, if you’re only comparing your creative skills to those of accomplished artists, writers, and sculptors. But creativity, being an interdisciplinary skill, doesn’t limit itself that way. It doesn’t discriminate based on how you earn a paycheck. It’s possible to exercise creativity as a nurse, an attorney, a teacher, a salesperson, a clerk, and, yes, even a technophile.

Linda Naiman, founder of Creativity at Work (www.creativityatwork.com) defines creativity as “the act of turning new and imaginative ideas into reality.” Nothing in that definition limits creativity to artists. Creativity can show itself in a new business process, an innovative product, a better teaching method, a new way to tackle problems, etc.

Creativity is a universal language. Any profession understands phrases like “I have a great idea,” “I see things differently,” and “We can do better.” Is the soil of some professions, and of some environments, more fertile for creativity than others? Of course. But that doesn’t mean we can’t cultivate creativity at some level, wherever we are.

Few people will ever have the impact Steve Jobs had on the world. But we can all make a personal pledge to “think different,” wherever we are, whatever we do.