adventuresinclientservice

[adventuresinclientservice]

Does the adage, "Fast, cheap, or good; pick two," still apply to advertising and marketing?

With technology, I’m pretty much a traditionalist, relying on PowerPoint for visual stuff and Word for verbal; I prefer email to text messages.  This explains why, when I sat down ten years ago to write my last book proposal, Microsoft Word made the most sense. 

Word is perfectly serviceable if all you want to do is capture keystrokes, but add in a photograph or other image?  It is, by any measure, pretty primitive, something I discovered when I added images to what I wrote. 

Whatever its shortcomings, the result apparently worked well enough, given I landed a new agent, Jeff Herman, who was able to recruit a new publisher, John Wiley & Sons.

Ten years, however, is equivalent to forever in the digital space, so with my latest proposal I figured I should seek a different, more sophisticated software platform, one with greater design flexibility.  There is no such option on my computer and even if there were one, using it is well beyond my pay grade, so I planned to retain an Art Director to help with design and layout.

I was unhappy with the look of The Art of Client Service’s first edition cover, prompting me to turn to Belinda Downey, who proved inventive and resourceful in formulating a solution.  I returned to Belinda to see if she wanted the book proposal gig; when this didn’t work out, I asked my talented Art Director friend Amy Hall, who also was fully committed.

At a loss for other Art Director/designer answers, I resorted to crowdsourcing with 99Designs; if it didn’t work, the sunk cost of running a book proposal contest would be modest and I’d then seek out other Art Director/Designer options.

I wrote a Creative Brief and launched the contest on a Saturday.  In a matter of days more than dozen designers -- mostly outside the U.S., not that it mattered -- submitted solutions.  All were surprisingly good, demonstrating a serious sense of craft combined with a clear understanding of the Brief. 

One of these, by Dzine Solutions, stood out with an execution that closely matched my own design predilections.  I awarded the assignment to the Dzine designer, who subsequently revealed his name as Anuj Kumar.

You want fast?  I began the contest late last month; a little more than a week later I emailed a finished proposal to my agent.  By any measure, that’s fast, far faster than if I had gone the more conventional route of working with separately with a designer.

You want cheap?  The investment was, at least by U.S. standards, incredibly reasonable, far less expensive than if I went with a more conventional route.

You want good?  You be the judge:  below is the cover of the proposal I wrote, in Word, followed by Kumar’s design, executed in Adobe Illustrator.  “Good” is a matter of taste and you might not agree, but the difference is noticeable, and to me a vast improvement over an amateur’s lame attempt using Word. 

Lest you think this is a commercial for crowd-sourcing a solution, rest assured it is not.  It is, however, a well-deserved shout-out for Anuj Kumar, who vastly exceeded my expectations with his speed, responsiveness, and design sensibilities.

I suppose it’s possible the “Fast, Cheap, or Good; pick two” rule still might apply to advertising and marketing.

It didn’t apply here.

[adventuresinclientservice]

The Harry Barrett I knew.

When I joined precursor Digitas agency Eastern Exclusives in 1984, my first client was AT&T’s Jerry Chappell, known to all as “J-dot D-dot Chappell.”  Forget the silly, self-serving name; you want uncompromising, unyielding, and unreasonable?  You got him.  Thank god for my other AT&T client, Ed Naczi, who was decent, kind, and capable, everything Chappell wasn’t.

I remember nothing positive or noteworthy about Chappell, except for the name he pegged on my then-boss Harry Barrett, calling him “An unmade waterbed,” something that has remained permanently lodged upstairs in the years since.

Harry replaced the person to whom I reported initially, Kristen Wainwright, who, like several other colleagues in those early days of chaos, confusion, and general madness, succumbed to illness and left, never to return.  Kristen struck me as sober, serious, and studious; Harry was the opposite:  a lineman-sized, larger-than-life football-playing thespian with a singular flair for exuberant performance.  In Chapter 56 of The Art of Client Service’s second edition, the one that precedes the current one, I describe him as,

“a very smart, very personable, and outrageously funny executive.  He was a big guy, kind of a bowling ball with legs.  A client described him  as ‘an unmade waterbed.’  That moniker captured his rumbled, tie-askew style.”

You familiar with the Saturday Night Live comedian Chris Farley?  That’s doesn’t do Harry justice, but it’s close. 

I remember one day traveling with him by car post-client meeting, in transit from AT&T’s Basking Ridge headquarters to Newark Airport, when, in a moment of frustration and disappointment compliments of our client Chappell, he leaned over from the back seat, clutched the driver by the shoulders, shook him, and said in his loudest, most exasperated stage voice, “Don’t ever, evergo into advertising, you hear me!!  EVER!!!”   

It broke the tension, put things in context  -- it’s only advertising -- and made me smile; Chappell didn’t seem quite so evil anymore.

There was another moment when I was struggling with an underperforming, direction-resistant colleague who reported to me.  Harry made the point that real leadership skill comes not with managing great people – “That’s easy,” but in making good people better and average people good, “That’s where the talent lies.”  Very wise.  

Over the years I’ve written about Harry from time-to-time, in particular here, here, and here.  Harry moved on from Eastern Exclusives, eventually joining the firm Snyectics and later starting his own venture as a “Creative Jedi.”  Both were suited to his true skill as an innovator and idea creator.

My other memories of Harry admittedly are random, but here are a few:

Given his size, I figured he couldn’t be quick or nimble; not so.  Proof was in the way he decimated me on the racquetball court, then gleeful in reminding me, without ever sounding mean or cruel about it.

He made more money than me, but that didn’t stop him from asking me to pay his monthly oil heating bill; I passed, figuring it was a gift, not a loan.

Having no qualms about taking advantage of whatever generosity I was willing to offer, he would try persuading me to write a presentation deck for him; I passed on this too, figuring if I did it once, I’d be doing it forever.

He introduced me to a drink I still consume today:  Mount gay rum and tonic.

I spoke with Harry a few years back; it was clear he was dealing with a couple of significant physical setbacks, but until I read a notice on Facebook’s Digitas Ditchers page, I didn’t know that in June he departed to the big idea factory in the sky.  He was just a few months younger than me.

Stories and memories notwithstanding, in truth I didn’t really know Harry; we were friendly but not friends, more frenemies than not.  I did know he could be among the world’s most frustrating colleagues, someone who could be wildly inconsistent in his notions and unreliable when reliability was what mattered most.

In the end, this isn’t what I choose to remember.  Instead, I remember Harry as a pretty good guy, with a big heart, and a creatively fertile and inventive mind.  Godspeed old friend.

[adventuresinclientservice]

Is solitude essential to creativity?

Last month, with a sense of loss infecting my thinking, I wrote a confessional post questioning my purpose (not having one) and friendships (not having any close ones).  It’s no surprise, then, I was drawn to last week’s New Yorker story, “Losing Loneliness.”

The author explores how large language models like Claude and ChatGPT are, at least for some people, serving as surrogates for companionship, replacing human contact.  What drew me to the story, however, was something else that seemingly has less to do with loss and more to do with creativity:

“Solitude is the engine of independent thought—a usual precondition for real creativity. It gives us a chance to commune with nature, or, if we’re feeling ambitious, to pursue some kind of spiritual transcendence: Christ in the desert, the Buddha beneath the tree, the poet on her solitary walk. Susan Cain, in her book ‘Quiet,’ describes solitude as a catalyst for discovery: ‘If you’re in the backyard sitting under a tree while everyone else is clinking glasses on the patio, you’re more likely to have an apple fall on your head.’”

For me those (sadly rare) moments of inspiration usually happen not at work, but far from it, when I am engaged in something else:  a workout, a walk, in the shower, watching television.  If “Eureka!” strikes while I’m at my desk, it always occurs during one of those quiet moments when I least expect it, usually late at night or on a weekend, when I’m not distracted by a meeting, a task, or a phone call/email/text.

If you work in advertising these days -- especially a digitally focused (as opposed to analog) shop -- chances are your desk is anchored to open plan.  This makes sense:  not only is it more cost-efficient from a real estate perspective, it also facilitates collaboration, which many people, me among them, acknowledge is key to creativity.

Open plan works, but at what sacrifice?  What gets lost in translation?

Nearly three years ago I wrote about the dilemma, pointing out the problem but not offering a solution.  As of today, is there one?

Covid inadvertently presented one possible remedy, compelling people to work at home, which should offer many more opportunities for solitude, until people are interrupted by never-ending video meetings, choked inboxes, and  family interventions, all of which means trading one set of distractions for others. 

I then recalled how people in my FCB shop figured this out:  our office was in the Levi Plaza complex, with a park-like setting nearby.  When they needed quiet or time to think, enterprising Creatives would repair to a park bench for an ad hoc brainstorming session.  Others would retreat to a nearby coffee shop, even if it meant a Starbucks visit (undrinkable though their coffee is).

Collaboration is key to creativity.  Solitude also is key to creativity.  Is there a way to reconcile these two seemingly contradictory circumstances?

The only way to reconcile solitude with collaboration is to make peace with both, understanding collaboration is necessary for creative serendipity, as are moments of solitude. 

The next time you and your collaborative colleagues are stumped for an idea or at a loss for a solution, do what I’ve proposed many times before:  do something other than work.  Trust me, your mind will still be at your desk while the rest of you is taking a break.  More often than not, answer will present itself, when you least expect it, on its own schedule, ideally when you most are in need of an idea to exploit an opportunity or a solution to address a problem.

Such is the magic of creativity, borne of collaboration, or solitude, or both.

[adventuresinclientservice]

Grace under pressure.

I am not a tennis fan – a team-sport Philly loyalist of longstanding, I follow the Eagles, Phillies, and Sixers -- which means I barely paid attention as the Wimbledon Championships unfolded a couple of weeks back. 

I did, however, pay attention to last year’s Dartmouth commencement speech by the world’s most famous player, Roger Federer, as he proclaimed the virtue of hard work, resilience, and grit to graduates.  I was so impressed with what he shared with students I quote him in my most recent, I-hope-to-be-published book, Why Client Service is an Art.

So when I read a story in last week’s New York Times about Amanda Anisimova’s lightning fast, 57-minute finals defeat at the hands of Iga Swiatek, I took notice, thinking, “It’s not often someone gets shut out,  6-0/6-0, especially in what’s supposed to be a competitive match.”  Since the beginning of the Open Era in 1968, with one exception, no one -- male or female, in single, doubles, or mixed doubles matches --  has ever been shut out before in a finals match. 

Never.

As Anisimova walked to the microphone, I’m bracing myself to hear all the reasons why the result went so badly, figuring Anisimova was ill, or hurt, or maybe had  a little too much to drink the night before.

I heard none of this.

In six-minute, tear-laden post-match remarks, Anisimova began by thanking her opponent:

"Thank you Iga. You’re such an incredible player, it obviously showed today.… You’ve been such an inspiration to me—just an unbelievable athlete, and you’ve had such an incredible two weeks here. Congratulations to you and your team.”

She thanked her supporters:

“Thank you to everyone who supported me since my first-round match here. It’s been such an incredible atmosphere— you guys have carried me through this entire championship.”

She thanked her Mom:

“My mom who flew in this morning… my mom is the most selfless person I know. She has done more work than I have, honestly. She has done everything to get me to this point in my life.”

And she vowed to return:

“And lastly, I know I didn’t have enough today, but I’m going to keep putting in the work.  I always believe in myself, so I hope to be back here again one day, and thank you everyone.”

This is what’s impressive about Anisimova’s remarks:

Its sincerity:  Those most definitely were not crocodile tears,  The speech didn’t come from the head, it came from the heart.

It’s humility:  No excuses; Anisimova fully owned her loss, acknowledging the winner’s dominance.

Its spontaneity:  Anisimova had just left the court, crushed by her opponent, yet was able to gather herself with composure and poise.

It’s maturity:  Anisimova will turn 24 next month -- she’s just a kid! – but acted like a veteran who has faced this type of setback before.

It’s brevity;  Without a script or time to rehearse, Anisimova packed a bunch of acknowledgments and thank you’s in less than six minutes and still had time for tears.

It’s tenacity;  there wasn’t an ounce of menace in her voice when Anisimova announced she will be back, by which I assume she means another Wimbledon finals match.   She strikes me as someone who will learn from the experience and get better because of it.

If you ever pitched new business, you know there are no consolation prizes for “almost.”  Like Wimbledon, it’s “Win or go home.”  Winners celebrate of course, but what about the losers?  There are bitter, recriminatory, blame-assigning ways to lose, and there is the Amanda Anisimova way to lose.

At some point all of us will find ourselves where Anisimova found herself, under the pressure of a crushing loss.  When this happens, I suggest recalling her speech, finding words that approach hers, warding off pressure, striving for a similar state of grace.

[adventuresinclientservice]

How I survived the three P's of advertising pressure.

There are very few scripted television dramas I make a point of watching.  Police procedurals, of course, given my addiction to them.  Slow Horses, because of the stellar acting and script.  From years back, The West Wing, for its amalgamation of drama and wit.

Another is The Bear, which I just finished streaming.  The other day I saw episode eight of season four; in it there’s an exchange between Luca (played convincingly by the actor Will Poulter) and Tina (played by Liza Colón-Zayas, a constant presence from the show’s beginning):

Luca:  “Pressure. Right. [sighs, stammers]” Tina:  “How do you get rid of it?” Luca:  “I think you get to a point where you don't want to.   Like, at first the pressure sucks, right?    It's the pressure that makes you feel shitty at what you do. And, actually, that's just the pressure getting in the way.    You learn to live with it. And then, next thing you know, you thrive on it.    And before you know it, you can't fսcking wait to get rocked. Like, you want that pressure, you need that pressure to be able to perform.     So, then, the challenge actually becomes, can you live without the pressure?” Tina:  “Can you? I mean…” Luca:  “I guess not. 'Cause I'm back here working for Carmy again [Carmen Berzatto, the show’s immensely talented but tortured and irrationally demanding, mercurial protagonist], so...  [laughs] I'm probably not the person to ask, but you let me know if  you find out, Chef.”

As I watch this exchange, I’m thinking,

“Luca reminds me of an adrenaline junkie – you know, the skydivers, big wave surfers, free climbers, or Formula One racecar drivers, people seeking the next big thrill – except he’s sounds like a pressure junkie.”

Okay, I get it’s scripted drama, not real life, but if I believe what I’m watching, then the pressure in a restaurant is unrelenting and never-ending.

Advertising and marketing are different:  there’s pressure, plenty of it, but it’s more intermittent.  When it happens, though, which is often, it usually takes on of three forms:

The pressure to produce means you need to be a consistent creator of ideas and solver of problems.  No one is excluded, everyone needs to contribute, especially Account people who often are underestimated as overmatched by colleagues.

The pressure to perform means you need to be at your best, in anything ranging from a formal new business presentation to an off-hand one-to-one conversation, to anything that resides in between.  Here’s where Account people earn their keep, demonstrating poise, skill, and expertise.

The pressure to persevere means when shit hits the proverbial fan -- you or your agency screws up (often), the work falls short of client expectations (more than we admit), or a budget gets blown or a schedule is missed (damn!) – you use the setback not as defeat but as motivation to keep going and to keep getting better.

How did I survive all those “three-P” years with demanding bosses, often unreasonable colleagues, and occasionally irrational and out-of-control clients?

See item three above. 

Hardly a day went by where I didn’t need to persevere in the face of disappointment, defeat or occasionally, outright disaster.  This is not an easy business.  Want to get a sense of how much pressure there really is?  Spend a week at an agency.  Spend a day.  You’ll soon realize why being an Account person is, by far, advertising’s most challenging job.

[adventuresinclientservice]

Is there another, (maybe) better way to look at Creative Briefs?

If you’re a regular or even sporadic reader of Adventures, or have read The Art of Client Service, you likely know the best writing occurs not in the first draft, but instead in the last.  Having completed a first draft of a new book, Why Client Service is an Art, I’m now doing exactly what you’d expect me to do:  try to make it better, by rewriting, revising, and editing it several (many) times over.

Like the previous book, this new one addresses how critical Creative Briefs are toformulating results-generating advertising and marketing initiatives.  Chapter 12  asks, “What About Creative Briefs?” proceeding to define the 13 elements essential to a good one, speaking to the virtues of brevity, strongly encouraging writers to confine its length ideally to two pages, three at most.

As I’m rereading this, I see the rock-and-a-hard-place dilemma:  on one hand, how can I insist on including 13 distinct elements to the Brief, yet at the same time also insist the result be short and to-the-point?  In the book I recognize how seemingly impossible this is to achieve:

“I never said this would be easy…. If what you craft runs to a third page, and if what on those pages is absolutely necessary, then you can violate the two-page rule.  “But if three pages runs to four, or five, or even longer, you know what is likely to happen?  It will be ignored rather than acted on, defeating the Brief’s purpose.  Figure out a way to make a short Creative Brief not an exception to the rule, but the rule.”

The beauty of rewrites is it compels honest re-examination of what’s written.  It’s easy to dictate guidelines, but what if a rule sets an unrealistic, impossible-to-achieve standard?  If this is true here, then is there another, more practical and achievable way to look at Creative Brief formulation?

To that end, I revisited the 13 elements that make up a Brief.  There are two that stand out as essential; each asks a question:

Is there an insight about the product/service, audience, or competitors we can identify then potentially exploit?

Is there a single benefit or promise we can make, one that motivates the behavior we’re seeking?

I then went to my notebook and drew (badly; I’m terrible at this) a diagram:

If you can uncover the right insight and identify the one key core benefit about the company, product, or service you’re trying to promote, you set the stage for a breakthrough that turns a problem into a solution or an opportunity into results.

I’ve said this before, but one of the functions of Adventures is to serve as a laboratory to explore ideas, some of which work, some of which don’t.  This is a perfect example.

So, what do you think:  am I on to something that would compel me to rethink, revisit, and revise Chapter 12, or am I wasting my time?

Regardless of your point-of-view. I’d very much welcome hearing it.

[adventuresinclientservice]

Crossing over.

Lest you think otherwise, this is not a story about the afterlife.  It is, instead, about Scott Turow.

Turow is best known for his celebrated novel and award-winning movie, Presumed Innocent, but he didn’t get his start as a writer; he spent ten years as a practicing attorney before retiring as a law-firm partner.

Turow prompted me to think about those who got their starts in professions other than as writers.  Doctors, for example:  I am reminded that Atul Gawande, Jerome Groopman, and Siddhartha Mukherjee are practicing physicians, everyone a New Yorker writer and bestselling book author:  

Dr. Gawande is the author of Complications: A Surgeon’s Notes on an Imperfect Science, a National Book Award finalist.

Dr. Groopman wrote How Doctors Think.

Dr. Mukherjee won a Pulitzer Prize in nonfiction for The Emperor of All Maladies:  A Biography of Cancer.

Then there’s Michael Lewis, he of the award-winning books and movies Moneyball and The Blindside, who began as a Wall Street Bond trader for  Salomon Brothers, writing his wickedly funny first best-seller, Liar’s Poker, as a side gig.

Carl Sagan trained as an astronomer, Anthony Bourdain as a chef, Leonard Cohen as a songwriter, Steve Martin as a performer, and George Keenan as a diplomat.  Writers all.

As I revisit these people and what they’ve accomplished, I realize each pursued a professional career – in law, medicine, finance, another occupation – yet found time to cross over, honing their skills as commercial writers.  As combined writer/professionals, they are by no means uncommon; if I were to look for other examples, I am certain I would find them.

The running joke at all the advertising agencies at which I worked was that every copywriter was an unrequited Nobel Prize or Oscar-winning person waiting to be discovered. a novel or screenplay lodged in the upper-right-hand drawer of their desks.  My friend and colleague Mike Slosberg was a perfect example, having actually written and published a couple of very readable, riveting, and often entertaining  pieces of fiction.

At first glance, every writer mentioned couldn’t be more different from one another, with each focused on their respective area of expertise.  Turow is a step further removed, given he writes fiction when everyone else writes non-.

A second look, however, reveals what they have in common:  the ability to take complex subjects – law, medicine, finance, science, music, performance, politics – and simplify them, making them accessible, appealing, and informative to their readers.

My point (finally!):  I am by no means thinking you need to be the second-coming of a Scott Turow or Michael Lewis; you certainly don’t need to create the proverbial great American novel or a celebrated business book. 

I am, instead, suggesting you work at crossing over, becoming adept at writing a conference report, a letter of proposal or scope-of-work, or one of several other commercial writing tasks your colleagues and most especially your clients expect you to accomplish with coherence and clarity, simplicity and concision.

If you need help mastering the craft, there are books, blogs, and other resources you can turn to for guidance.  The Art of Client Service includes three such recommendations, all short, all accessible, all incredibly helpful.  Or you can just begin here, with the short post I wrote, “How to become a better writer.”  It’s not much, but it’s a start.

Account and client service people need to be conversant in a wide range of skills, but as you progress in your career, the one that matters most is having a command of commercial writing, of writing for commerce.

Why?

It is the one superpower that will serve you well throughout your career, wherever your career takes you.

[adventuresinclientservice]

Proving your worth to clients and colleagues.

Some people write a book proposal before they actually write a book.  I am not one of those people:  I need to write a book first, followed by a proposal.

Having completed a draft of Why Client Service is An Art, I knew I needed a  proposal to share with my current agent, possibly other agents if my last one chooses to no longer represent me (being a realist), and ultimately, potential publishers.  I’ve written several of these before, the most recent after completing my last book, The Art of Client Service, but ten years have elapsed in the time since. 

Time for a refresher course. 

A quick Amazon search on “Book proposal writing” yields a bunch of options, making it seem as if there are as many books on how to write proposals as there are  proposal being written.  The last time I sat down to write I relied on two:  the first by my I-hope-still-is-but-don’t-know-for-sure agent Jeff Herman; the other by Jody Rein and Mike Larsen.   I bought Rein’s and Larsen’s fifth edition of How to Write a Book Proposal.

 The book proved to be useful in all sorts of practical ways; deep into it, on page 152, I come across this:

“Life is one audition after another.”

Auditions are a way of life for people who need to persuade others, which explains why they apply not just to book writers, but also to just about everyone else who works at an advertising agency:  copywriters, art directors, media people, production experts, even planners. 

Who’s missing?

Account people; few if any people know or understand what they do. 

While Account and client service people might not call it an “audition,” they continually find themselves “on stage,” in essence justifying their reasons for being:

Account people audition with colleagues, proving they can be relied on for help in ways large and small, when it matters, and when it doesn’t.

Account people audition with superiors, proving they are responsible and committed, willing to take direction, respectfully ask questions, and occasionally challenge assumptions.

Account people audition when they are looking at strategy, creative work, media, and production, proving they have helpful, constructive, and positive observations they willingly and constructively share.

Account people audition when they interact with suppliers, proving they have the necessary technical skills to earn their respect.

Account people audition when something goes awry, proving they can help get whatever is amiss back on track.

Account people audition in new business, proving they are a source of ideas,  willing to put in time to ensure their agency performs at its best when it counts the most.

Account people audition when their agency is awarded an account, proving they are a vital, responsive, contributing member of the team.

Account people audition when their agency loses an account, proving they can learn from the experience.

Above all, Account people audition continually with clients, proving they should be entrusted to protect the clients’ interests, even though they have a fiduciary responsibility to the agency that signs their paychecks.

That’s my back-of-the-envelope list; if you’re an Account/client service person, I suspect you’ll recall a time or three when you were auditioning, trying to prove your worth to others. 

No wonder being an effective Account/client service person is the toughest, most demanding, and least-recognized and under-appreciated job in advertising.   

[adventuresinclientservice]

"I grow old... I grow old... I'll shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled."

This is deeply personal -- if you find it inappropriate, feel free to skip it -- but what follows was prompted, in part, by a story I read in The New York Times, “Where Have All My Deep Male Friendships Gone?”  In it the author admits,

“Eventually my loneliness started to eat into my confidence as a writer, and this made me even more reluctant to see my friends. How, I wondered, could they possibly relate to my boring creative problems? I thought about going to therapy, but I’d done plenty of that in the past, and I didn’t have the time, money or interest to go back. I was seriously struggling, and my writing came to a standstill. I started to see myself as an unemployed washout…”

About a month ago I awoke suddenly at 3:00 am, saying to myself:

“I have lost my sense of purpose, and I have no friends.”

I lie awake for two hours before falling back into troubled sleep.

That evening, I share what I’m going through with Roberta, who suggests I find a therapist with whom to speak, offering to research candidates.

Roberta quickly identified a therapist she thinks might be helpful.  I have sought such help twice before – the first when my second marriage imploded in anger and acrimony, the second when I had a crisis of confidence -- so I schedule the first of what has become several conversations.

The conversations are clarifying, in that conversations always are helpful, especially the ones on loss-of-purpose.  I explain to the therapist I haven’t conducted a workshop since late last year.  As for speeches, my last one occurred more than 18 months ago, in Bucharest, at the International Advertising Association’s annual conference, held in the all-too-grand, palatial Romanian National Opera House, before a crowd of 1,000 people.  

A realist, even then I recognized that it might be my farewell time on stage.  If it was, it was a memorable way to say goodbye.

Mike Slosberg taught me something about maintaining purpose:   long after he retired from advertising, Mike continued to write novels.  I will follow his lead and do something similar:  absent workshops and speaking engagements, not one person contacts me to inquire or ask for a proposal -- I write a new book. 

It is called Why Client Service is an Art, a complement to my current book.  I now am writing the required proposal that, if all goes as planned, will confirm I still have an agent (it has been 10 years since he last represented me) who ideally will land a publisher.  Finding a publisher means a host of other activities that will keep me productive, a possible solution to the loss-of- purpose problem.

The matter of friendship is thornier.  I’m an introvert at heart, not by nature a joiner of groups; my few remaining friends from my younger days – Jerry Cooper, Judge Jane, Jodi Greenblatt, Rick Johnson, Jack Carey, my cousin Marsha, my sister-in-law Tracy – live on the opposite coast, many occupied by adult children.   Lunch or coffee just to talk isn’t an option.

I am “friendly” with scores of people, but if I’m honest, I know these are not close to being close friends.  I am not alone; according to a Survey Center study quoted in the Times story,

“17 percent of men have zero close friends, more than a fivefold increase since 1990.”

I feel better, but only just.  I then recall the words of a famous rock band, “I still have not found what I’m looking for.” (My pen pal Ken Ohlemeyer likely knows its provenance; for the rest of you, it’s U2.)

Some of my despair simply might be a function of age:  next year I will turn 75.   For many, it’s well past the time to retire.  I am not the retiring type.

Getting old sucks.  I remind myself of the alternative, feel better still, and vow to keep searching for an answer to having no close friends.  You are welcome to help, if you are so inclined.

[adventuresinclientservice]

Why Judgment matters, more now than ever before.

There was a story in The New York Times a couple of weeks ago, written by Philip Corbett, who announced his retirement as Standards editor, having served at the paper from more than 35 years.

Corbett points out,

“People think there’s a hard-and-fast rule for everything. Many readers, and even many colleagues, seem to imagine that the job of a Standards editor is to know all the rules and make sure they are followed.”

I wish this were true, but it’s not; Corbett goes on to say,

“If only it were so clear-cut. In fact, Standards editors spend a lot of time helping colleagues navigate the gray areas, the competing goals, the close calls.”

He concludes,

“In making those calls, we start with our bedrock commitment to accuracy, fairness, independence and integrity. We consult our guidelines and review previous examples. We think about what our readers need and expect from The Times. We talk and Slack and email and compare possible approaches, and make our best judgment.”

More than 25 years ago, in my first book, Brain Surgery for Suits, Chapter 20 has a title, “Judgment Overrides Any Rule.” In the first and second editions of The Art of Client Service, the same title appears as Chapter 34; in the third, current edition, it appears as Chapter 37.

The chapter’s content has changed little, ending with,

“This is a book of rules, but an account executive works in a world of exceptions.  No rule can accommodate every situation, and no list of rules is exhaustive.  In the end, the only rule you can rely on is this:  judgement rules.”

Brain Surgery for Suits includes 56 such rules; in the first edition of The Art of Client Service the number reduces to 54, then increases to 58 in the second edition before returning to 52 in the current, third edition.  The new book I just completed, Why Client Service is an Art, distills the number to a more manageable and pragmatic five.

No matter the number, large or small, there is no compilation that could possibly embrace every circumstance, challenge, or opportunity that you simply could consult for guidance.  When faced with one of those, “there is no rule” situations – the “gray areas” of which Corbett speaks – how should you, as a client service person, respond?

There is of course no rule to which I can refer you, but I can at least offer four suggestions on how you might sharpen your powers of judgment, strengthening your skill at arriving at the “right” decision:

Learn from your mistakes.  On page 174 of The Art of Client Service I point out,

“the account people with the best judgment are the ones who made mistakes and learned from them.  Their good judgment comes in part from previous bad judgment.”

There is a well-known proverb that goes, "Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me."  All of us screw up.  The best Account people do not make the same or a similar mistake twice.

Observe others.  Chapter 36 of the latest edition is called, “We Are Smarter Together Than We Are Alone” for a reason.  If there are people in your agency whose judgment you would emulate, watch them and learn from them, adopting their good judgment as your own.

Seek help.  There is value in collective wisdom, so do not hesitate to ask for the perspective of colleagues you respect, keeping in mind that, in the end, the final decision on how to proceed is yours and yours alone.

Think of time as a teacher.  This is all too obvious even to state, but starting out, if I knew then what I know now, many of the thorny situations I found myself in would have been addressed in a different, more appropriate, and less stressful way.  The point:  there is no substitute for wisdom; developing it takes time, so give it the time it needs.

If you want to know why long-tenured people like Philip Corbett are indispensable to The New York Times, and why veteran, knowledgeable Account people are indispensable to agencies of all types, sizes, and geographies, and why they never will be replaced by large-language-model A.I., this why. 

Rest assured things will continue to evolve and change in advertising and marketing agencies; the need for capable Account people won’t.  If you are not yet one of these highly effective, frequently sought-after people – sadly increasingly rare these days, given their decimation by agency holding companies ready to sacrifice them to the bottom line --  your goal, in spite of the obstacles before you, should be to become one.

[adventuresinclientservice]

How to work with clients whose beliefs you do not share.

This will come as no surprise to those of you who are regular Adventures readers:  I’m about to cite David Brooks in yet another post, as I did last week, and I’ve done many, many times before.  When you read a headline, “Can We Please Stop Lying About Obama?” from an avowed conservative –Brooks is a Republican in the traditional sense of the word, thankfully not the disfigured, deformed, and perverted MAGA version – you will see why it attracted my notice.

I’ve written before about how Brooks has disavowed, deconstructed, and then demolished what’s wrong with the deeply damaged Republican party, but here, in the process of correcting the record as it relates to former President Obama’s record during his eight-year tenure in office, he makes one key point:

Many progressive Democrats imagine they can win back working-class votes with economic populism — by bashing the oligarchy and embracing industrial policy — but that’s a mirage. Joe Biden shoveled large amounts of money to working-class voters in red states, and it did him no electoral good. That’s because you can’t solve with dollars a problem that is fundamentally about values and respect.

Putting politics aside for the moment, Brooks has made a larger point, one I agree with, especially when interacting with clients.

I always was careful to avoid any discussion on politics, figuring this only would complicate matters when my remit was to represent their interests to the best of my ability, regardless of their views or beliefs, but I discovered a couple of instances where religion became an inadvertent topic of discussion. 

I recall asking one client where she learned to speak Spanish so fluently; she explained she was the daughter of missionaries, learning Spanish when she was living in a poor community in South America.  It later became clear she was a seriously practicing Evangelical Christian.  Another client, having been raised as a Mennonite, explained the challenges she faced, making her different from virtually all of her colleagues.

I’m Jewish, not so much religiously as culturally, proud of my faith.  Would this prove to be a barrier with either of these clients?

Not at all.  If my clients were to ask me about being Jewish, I would willingly explain why, but this never came up in conversation, most likely because my clients understood and respected my values, much as I did theirs.

Over time, both of these client relationships grew into something approaching friendship based on trust and mutual respect.   If asked, I would explain I am prone to listening to others, not sitting in judgement of them.  Your religious views might differ from mine, but with few exceptions this in no way prevents me from respecting whatever path you’ve chosen.

I refrained from discussing politics with clients, but I suspect many of them hold political views far from mine.  I am fairly certain I worked for superiors who held views vastly more conservative than my own.  Again, this is about values, and respect for other people’s perspectives, which is why, on these matters, I kept my own counsel.

Even so, there were unspoken lines I would not cross:  I would refuse to work with clients who, for example, I knew worked for or with the NRA, or for the tobacco companies, or who was a religious extremist, because these would entail a compromise of my values, not an accommodation of them.

If you work with clients whose views, religious or political, are not ones you share, remember neither of these truly matter in the scheme of things, if what matters to you, above all, are values and respect, especially today, when these are in short supply, and people choose to forget them in the heat of anger and accusation.

[adventuresinclientservice]

Rejection does not mean defeat

A couple of weeks ago New York Times Op-Ed columnist David Brooks wrote about being at Williams College, where a student he encountered there, “made a point that I’d never considered. ‘We are the most rejected generation,’ he said.”

Brooks goes on to say, “He’s right,” citing evidence of such, including admissions rates at universities, competition for student clubs and summer internships, interviewing for jobs, plus a host of other situations to prove his point, thoroughly documenting his rationale for each.  He supports this further by sharing some anecdotal exchanges with students who support the idea of being “the most rejected generation.”

If Brooks and I were seated next to one another at a dinner party (highly unlikely), I would make a point of sidestepping politics and religion – two subjects most people wisely avoid, plus I’d be completely overmatched and outclassed in any discussion with him on either --  given we are on opposite sides of the aisle when it comes to both.  After reading his piece on, “’We Are the Most Rejected Generation,’” I find myself again taking exception.

My reason:  Brooks never worked in advertising. 

I’ll make my case by beginning with the biggest of the big pictures:  I was an early prophet of the decline of the large, publicly traded, holding company-dominated advertising agencies, repeatedly posting about it, starting more than decade ago, then more recently here.

My comments were echoed by consultant Michael Farmer’s post, echoed by Tim Williams; sad as I am to say this, I frankly was way ahead of both of them when it came to what has become a sad prediction.    

The consequence?

The holding companies, in their relentless pursuit of profit and share price, try cutting their way to sustaining bottom-line growth.  People, especially those in higher-priced, more senior positions, get fired.

That’s the big picture but rejection doesn’t stop there; agencies become conditioned to it; every time they lose a new business pitch – page 22 of The Art of Client Service points out “There are no silver medals in the Olympics of new business” – or present a proposal, a strategy, or creative work (“We presented three options; the client rejected all of them”), they frequently see clients dismiss them, resulting in yet another do-over. 

Years ago, before I auditioned to be an advertising agency person, I oversaw a small, in-house marketing group that was part of the pioneering data and information publisher Congressional Information Service.  One of my colleagues was John Beil, who ran the sales team.  Beil was fond of saying his salespeople “thrive on rejection.”

Beil was a salesperson; he didn’t work in advertising.  David Brooks is a New York Times columnist; he doesn’t work in advertising, nor do the college students to whom he refers.  You work in advertising.  You know first-hand what rejection feels like.  At the extreme, you know first-hand what it is like to be a holding company casualty, with your job no more.

If there is any good news to what otherwise is a dark, dismal, and disappointing story, it’s that you thrive on rejection, and surely do not give into it.  You rise above it and carry on, in spite of obstacles and adversity. 

Do you survive it?  You do.  For you, rejection does not mean defeat.

[adventuresinclientservice]

What's better: buying my book, or borrowing one?

Among the many reasons I remain a dedicated daily reader of The New York Times isn’t just that it is a reliable, comprehensive, and trustworthy source of news, it also is because the paper pays attention to covering topics usually overlooked by other news outlets.  One of these is the Times’ well-edited “Obituary” section; another is its weekly The Ethicist column.  I am drawn to it more out of curiosity than anything else.

Many of the questions posed by readers are about “big” topics:  matters of faith, marital questions, borderline behavior, or other seemingly weighty issues.  Last week, however, there was a seemingly harmless query posed by a reader that I found noteworthy:

“Is it ethical to buy used books and music instead of new copies that will financially reward the author or artist? What do consumers owe to producers of art?” 

The cynical part of me wonders if the question is being posed by an author eager to sell more books, but regardless, I agree with the ethicist when he replies:

“Works that circulate widely can enhance the artist’s reputation, whether it’s a book read and passed along, a record rediscovered in a thrift shop or a painting resold at auction. Enthusiastic new audiences, prominent displays and word-of-mouth appreciation can all contribute to a creator’s stature.”

A couple of years ago I made a visit to the local Napa library, two copies of The Art of Client Service in hand, explaining to the acquisition librarian that I’d like to donate them, assuming they could find a place for them.  She graciously and gratefully accepted them, catalogued them, then found a home for them in the library’s business book section.

What prompted me to do this?  Was it altruism, or something else?    

If you’re a regular or even occasional reader of Adventures you might recall I am a big believer in the immeasurable, hard-to-quantify impact of word-of- mouth, having written about it here.

It explains why I give away copies.  It also explains why, on the book’s website, I’ve tried my best to provide all the information a prospective reader might need to make an informed purchasing decision, meaning, “Is it worth the money?”  If you visit the book’s Amazon page you can read what scores of other readers have to say about the book, some of it positive and affirming, some of it critical and condemning, nearly all of it in some way helpful.

Make no mistake, I am very grateful and deeply appreciative of those who buy the book, but – this is an opinion, not a fact – people who buy books with the best of intentions don’t always read them, let alone follow the counsel they offer. 

Those who borrow a book – from a colleague, or by checking the library to see if there is a copy – generally do so with serious intent.  For them the book is not an impulse purchase; instead, they’ve gone out of their way to get a copy, most likely because they want to read it and put it to use, not have it occupy space on a shelf.

So, that question again:  would I like you to buy the book?

Of course.  To me it’s an under-20-buck investment that pays dividends well beyond its cost.

Would I like you to find a copy to borrow?

Absolutely!  What matters most isn’t that you buy it, but rather that you actually read it, putting what you find helpful to use on behalf of your colleagues and clients.

But this is one person’s biased opinion, meaning mine, as author.

What really matters is yours:

Has the book been helpful to you, worth buying, borrowing, and sharing, or not?  Regardless, how can I make it better?

[adventuresinclientservice]

Five memorable lessons from Warren Buffett.

I mainly am a words person, the furthest thing from a savvy financial investor, but after watching  a couple of advisors Roberta and I retained -- U.S. Trust, then Merrill Lynch, and finally the boutique firm AFW – I finally concluded I could do better on my own when it came to investing.  If I failed, I’d only have one person to blame:  me. 

Following the first of several Warren Buffett’s suggestions to which I paid heed -- “our favorite holding period is forever” – I shifted our portfolio to Vanguard, where expenses are much lower than those offered by other institutions, did an assessment of risk (ours:  mostly adverse), made some decisions to diversify (substantially), then left matters as they are, revisiting them only when circumstances require, making my approach to holding periods mirror Buffett’s, meaning forever, or nearly so.    

This might work for investing, but when it comes to client service, applying the principle means understanding that your best new clients are your existing ones, which means nurturing them by building and sustaining relationships that help keep clients as clients, ideally forever.

Buffett retired last week; he left us with some sound advice that was reflected in a New York Times story, ones I do my best to apply to client service.

If the first thing is “our favorite holding period is forever” the second comes when Buffett is negotiating, where he is

“unyielding when it comes to the numbers. When he is involved, rounds of haggling over price are not in the cards; he is ready to walk away.”

The lesson:  when it comes to negotiating on an assignment fee, the only way to maintain a modicum of leverage is to be willing to say “No thanks” when something doesn’t fit financially.  In fact, on page 82 of The Art of Client Service I display a chart that helps navigate the degree of fee flexibility when it comes new business- or letter-of-proposal compensation discussions.

Am I willing to negotiate?  Always, but there are times when the client’s agenda and your own diverge.  That’s when you need the wherewithal to walk away.  I’ve done this when necessary, never regretting the decision I made. 

The third lesson is best described with a quote from “Byron Trott, who was a former Goldman Sachs deal maker:  ‘His ability to distill complexity into clarity, and to lead with humility and conviction, is unmatched.’”

There is a moment in one of my workshops when I share the PowerPoint slide  where I invoke Buffett’s words “clarity and conviction” recognizing these are key to communicating effectively with clients and colleagues.

The fourth lesson concerns honesty:  Buffett is willing to admit his mistakes; according to the Times story, one of them is his “passing up opportunities to invest early in technology giants like Amazon and Microsoft, whose businesses he said he didn’t understand at the time.”  I am with him on this, describing The Art of Client Service not as a book of success, but instead as a “book of failure,” even blogging about it here.

The fifth, final, and most important lesson from Buffett is best expressed by a quotation of his:

“Lose money for the firm, and I will be understanding; lose a shred of reputation for the firm, and I will be ruthless.”

To this I say “amen.”

[adventuresinclientservice]

What an insurance broker teaches us about the value of proactive client service.

The other day I received this email about our insurance policy renewal:

“Hi Robert- I remarketed your renter’s policy, only because we just had one of our admitted carriers open up for renters, and I was hoping to get you a lower premium with the same coverage.  Please see attached. “This is an admitted carrier, currently you are with a non-admitted carrier which is why they can charge the state fee and have higher rates. First Cap/Aegis is admitted, I quoted the same limits but with a lower deductible and premium is $XXX. Once you review the quote let me know if you prefer to move forward with First Cap effective 5/8, and we will let your other policy non-renew.   “Thank you. Sarah Dill Account Executive”

Dill’s colleague had just emailed Roberta and me our annual renewal, which showed a significant reduction in our premium, surprising given we live in California where wildfires are a constant threat, driving insurance costs significantly up, not down.

Most insurance brokers would be happy with the lower-cost result and let it go at that.  Having been the surprised, happy recipients of the lower rate, we never would have thought to ask if the number could be reduced further.

I cannot recall another situation where unbeknownst to us, someone took the extra steps to advocate on our behalf, then deliver a result that cut our cost by more than half.

For most, buying insurance is a transaction, nothing more, largely driven by price.  But as I pointed out in a post last year, every relationship includes a transaction, and every transaction presents an opportunity to build relationship.  That opportunity sadly remains unfulfilled, as most transactors are more concerned with moving on to the next sale, treating customers as exactly that – customers – rather than as clients.

Sarah Dill has no idea what I do for a living, that I teach workshops, write weekly on client service and suggest how to do it better, and have authored a book on the subject.  Insurance is a galaxy away from advertising.  Yet she went to bat for us, treating our policy renewal less like a transaction and more in the service of relationship building. 

The result is, the next time we need to decide about insurance, we’ll think less about the product and more about the person with whom we’re dealing, that  person being Sarah Dill.  If you’re a client service person, how do you begin to place a value on this?

It doesn’t matter if advertising is your calling, or insurance, real estate, law, financial services, or one of a host of other categories in the business of interacting with clients, the lesson is:  don’t wait for them to ask; take the initiative beforehand and address a need before it becomes one.

Will your clients thank you for it?  Probably not, and they surely won’t post about it, but that’s not why you do it.  You do it because you believe in the hard-to-quantify, immeasurable power of relationship.

[adventuresinclientservice]

The power of visual thinking in a language-dominated landscape.

Not many of you will recall this – the exceptions might be Adventures’ readers of longstanding, like Rick English, Ken Ohlemeyer, Steve Bartholomew, Clayton Hove, several others I can’t quite summon from memory – but years ago I posted “Why I love police procedurals,” likening them to advertising and marketing in general and client service in particular.  Since then I’ve continued to search for other shows in the category, discovering a trio of programs I previously overlooked:  Murdoch Mysteries, Brokenwood Mysteries, and The Chelsea Detective.

It doesn’t matter if the series is set in the present day or the past, is situated in a big city or in a small town, or is the beneficiary of the latest in crime detection technology or not.  Among other similarities in what is admittedly a fairly formulaic approach, I noticed the three shows have this in common: 

As the detectives grapple with a seemingly unresolvable crime, they begin by affixing a photo of the victim to a whiteboard (or blackboard, if it’s a period piece), then building from there, adding clues as they collect them, scribbling notes and diagrams as they discuss the case, considering possible ways to identify the perpetrator.

The whiteboard is more than merely a repository; it serves as a catalyst in the truest (non-scientific) sense of word, facilitating thinking, prompting additional questions, debate and (sometimes) disagreement, leading to one or several hypotheses. 

Over time, the detectives visually connect the dots, looking for missing clues, sometimes viewing the situation from a different angle to solve a seemingly unsolvable puzzle. 

In an unexpected “connect the dots” moment of my own, thinking about police procedurals reminded me a John Fletcher.

As a strategy consultant, Fletcher was integral to the early success at Digitas, beginning his career at Boston Consulting Group, inventors of the now classic four-box grid, which he taught me to use, mostly by demonstrating its use in client presentations.

The grid’s original purpose was to depict market growth and market share, but I saw how Fletcher made use of its versatility, which prompted me, on page 82 of The Art of Client Service, to use the grid to depict an agency’s degree of willingness to pursue a new business opportunity. 

I re-purposed it again in a workshop I lead, shamelessly borrowing from Steven Covey’s best-selling book, The Seven Habits of Highly Successful People, where I advised participants with a way to deal with the overwhelming, often chaotic demands of their jobs.

This prompted me to think of my friend Amy Hall, a strategist who works with attorneys to convert their arguments into persuasive visuals, giving jurors a way to “see,” better equipping them to understand, learn, retain, and care about the case the lawyers are advocating.

I recalled all the times when I abandoned a computer keyboard in favor of a pad and pen to scribble or sketch an idea I wanted to capture, or to work through a problem.  I thought of Ted Johnson, who called to ask, “Who makes the best Creative Director, a Copywriter or an Art Director?” to which I replied,

“I would say both.  What I’m really looking for is a Copywriter who thinks visually and an Art Director who thinks verbally.  The ability to straddle both disciplines is what really matters.  That, and the talent to make the work of others better.” 

I then summoned the people who fit the definition of being both:  Mike Slosberg, a writer by training, but a skilled cartoonist at heart; Christine Bastoni, a writer who doubles as a brilliant visual thinker; and, although I never worked with him, my Art Director Hall-of-Fame father-in-law, Bob Wilvers, who reverted to copywriter mode when he came up with the famed Plop, Plop, Fizz, Fizz line for Alka-Seltzer. 

And finally, I remembered the scores of focus groups I witnessed when the moderators ask people to draw a situation rather than describe it in words, knowing this was a means to uncover otherwise hidden perceptions and feelings.

My skill as an artist is vastly less than zero, but even so, I still can manage to draw a chart when it helps visualize a problem, depict a solution, or showcase an idea.

If you already are thinking in visual terms, you know how effective it can be.  If you aren’t and still are inclined to think verbally, the next time you’re in search of a solution to a problem or an idea to capitalize on an opportunity, suspend words for the moment and try approaching the idea visually.  It just might serve as the path to arrive at a solution that long eluded you.

[adventuresinclientservice]

How the passage of time can lead to a change of heart.

As I sat down to write this, my first thought was, “No one will read it.”  In truth, no one should read it, given it at best touches only tangentially on advertising.

Even so, knowing how important it is to celebrate those who departed to the big advertising agency in the sky, or to some other final destination – some were friends, a few were colleagues, others admittedly were complete strangers -- I remain committed to writing tributes.  Today’s subject is a case in point:  I did not know this person, but he was notably present at the memorial service for my father-in-law, and this is reason enough for memory and recognition.

My first impression of Rick Levine was far from favorable.

It was three weeks before Roberta and I were to be married; we were at the memorial service for the sad but not wholly unexpected passing of Roberta’s Dad, Art Director Hall-of-Fame member Bob Wilvers.

There were any number of kind, generous, and moving tributes and reminiscences of Bob given that day, none of which came as a surprise, given the room was crowded with a fair number of celebrated advertising pros, many of whom got their starts as copywriters.

Tributes done, the minister presiding over the service opened the floor to anyone who wanted to share a memory.

“Who is this guy??” I thought, as a person wholly unknown to me took the stage.

That guy was Rick Levine.

He was a bit too loud, a bit too assertive, and a bit too judgmental, or so I thought, as he stood before us not to remember Bob as the person who brought us together, but rather to point out that Wilvers’ second wife Francine was overlooked by the various tributes spoken in his memory. Levine acknowledged Francine with sharp-edged recognition and suffusive praise, creating what was more than an awkward moment for those assembled.

I didn’t bother to ask others who Levine was, mostly because I heard more than enough and admit being offended by his remarks, but decided to let the matter pass, knowing this day was not about confrontation, but rather was meant to celebrate Bob’s legacy.

The other day a memory previously exiled to the dustbin was resurrected when I stumbled on a story in The New York Times “Obituaries” section:

“Rick Levine, an award-winning television commercial director who brought a big-screen sensibility to the small screen with widely celebrated spots, including a Diet Pepsi Super Bowl ad from the 1980s featuring Michael J. Fox risking life and limb for love, died on March 11 at his home in Marina del Rey, Calif. He was 94.”

This was news, at least to me, and not just about his passing; it was news because I had no idea just how celebrated Levine is.  I suspect he worked with Francine when both were at famed agency Doyle Dane Bernbach.  He likely intersected with Bob when both did tours of duty at Wells Rich Greene.  If I were to guess, I imagine Levine might have directed commercials for Bob when he was Creative Director.

I’ve written about Francine before, as someone just short of prominent among the pioneering women in advertising, so we at least shared that opinion of her.  But what about that long ago reaction I had to Levine’s remarks?  

Time has a way of bringing a new perspective to old sensibilities.  Where I once thought there was overreach in Levine standing up for Francine – for me the day was devoted to Bob’s first wife Marilyn, mother to Roberta and sister Tracy -- I now take a different view:  he was right to speak on behalf of Francine, who also deserved recognition.

I certainly can’t speak for Roberta or Tracy and their feelings about the matter, but I can speak for myself: the passage of time often has a profound impact on a person’s point-of-view.  If there is any message in my change of heart, it’s offered in a simple piece of advice: 

The next time you’re ready to level an “already made up my mind” reaction to a colleague or client, opinion or attitude – especially these days when just about everyone is ready to react, or worse, over-react -- you might take a step back and withhold judgment, for a minute, an hour, a day, or as it was in my case, years.

Give it time.  The result might surprise you, as it did me here.