Friends will be Friends

With a LinkedIn network that has grown over 1000% in about a month, it was time to test out these new-found friends. Are they the sort of friends who will willingly spend upward of a minute and a half helping me?  To paraphrase Roger Waters, I decided to “test the water of their friendship with my toe”, Besides, I really needed some help.

The last post to this blog “We Apologise for this Break in Transmission” outlines a request for help and it was sent to 200 LinkedIn contacts that I selected on the basis of likely expertise.

Even though I sent it Sunday morning and write this on a Monday morning, replies have come pouring in. My favourite so far – sent just a few minutes after I sent the question:

Robert, I don’t think you’re there yet.  1) spell check!   2) clearly show the value that you’re offering (letter sounds like just a sales pitch for the book) 3) proof read this!  4) from what perspective are you coming from?  sounds a bit too familiar in tone to be promoting professionalism.  5) hang in there.

I love this reply because, though succinct, it shows that some guy somewhere took the time to read my email, read the blog and then reply. In particular, I was heartened by item 5. What a nice touch. I’ll try to make my answers more encouraging from now on.

Because I believe that you have to give as well as receive, for every answer I receive, I’ll go to LinkedIn answers and find a question to answer – that’s being the Person 2.0 I wish to be.

So, thinking about the whole concept of networks and on-line friends, I can’t help but think back about three years, when my then 16-year-old was always talking on-line to people he had never met in person.

He was of the opinion that because they had all been introduced by mutual friends, and that had likewise happened before;  somewhere in the chain was someone he knew in the real world, and therefore this was OK. As his parents, we where very concerned about the fact that every Goth, Emo or vampire (not as many, but enough) in Adelaide was talking to our son about God knows what. He was even starting to listen to my CD’s by The Cure and Pink Floyd for God sake; a sure sign of a descent into madness.

I’ve actually met a bunch of these people since, and though terribly earnest, philosophical and in some cases not terribly in tune with personal hygiene; they an alright bunch of kids. They’re not exactly rabble-raisers – they’re more likely to spend Friday evening arguing philosophy over cigars and scotch (you can thank Boston Legal for that).

For me the point is that you can sharpen an on-line instinct like you can in the flesh. You won’t pick every bad apple; but you’ll have a reasonable handle on those who aren’t rowing in the same direction as you.

I’ve recently become enchanted with Twitter; and some of my on-line contacts such as TalentSynch and InfoSourcer are proving to be incredibly generous with their pearls of 140-character wisdom.

It’s now the age where the “loner” tag can be thrown off. Those of us a little different who don’t make friends easily in social scenes can add a whole new dimension to our lives in the glow of the LCD screen.

We apologize for this break in transmission

This is not my regular Sunday/Monday-ish weekly blog. That’s on it’s way. 

This is here because I’m seeking opinions from amongst those who are kind enough to comment about a letter I’m about to send to HR managers. It’s based on ideas from several trusted friends, and I believe I’ve written it well. I’m just not sure it presses the HR hot button.

So, please comment. Rip it to shreds. I value all input.

Here it is:

Hello <Name>

HR is often seen as operational and transactional, with no strategy, no flair, no insight, no pro-activity.

Unfair? Of course! But too often true.

If you are in an organisation that believes that, you probably want to challenge that perception.

If you aren’t, you’ll want to continue to emphasise your strategic functions so that your organisation continues to treat HR the way it needs to be treated.

Sometimes, simple ideas are the best. Here’s one that’s simple, cheap and noticeable.

Buy all the other senior executives a book!

It seems a simple thing, but if the book is good enough and adds enough value, it makes a clear statement.

Of course, it needs to be the right book.

“1001 Nights in the Trans-Arabian Corporation‘s Boardroom” is a work of fiction that is crammed with insight into business ethics, career development, marketing, business management, and of course, goo HR practice. It’s witty and enjoyable enough to be read as a pure work of fiction, but its real benefit is to unleash the creativity of the business manager. Reviewers have raved about it.

Best of all, it’s just a book. No DVD to buy. No series of seminars to sign up for. Just a book. With a corporate rate of less that AU$30 per copy.

It would be hard to explain how this book works in this short note – it’s a big story made up of little stories. To get an idea of how the little stories work, take ten minutes to read the free chapter “The Jentacular Experience”. It can be downloaded here.

If you’re keen to explore the book, then buy a copy on-line. Send a note that you’re a HR Manager, and I’ll send you an extra copy free, so that you and you’re team can assess it quicker. If you don’t enjoy it, let me know and I’ll refund the purchase price.

It’s a pretty simple idea. Change perceptions – just a bit, but positively – for an amount that will barely register on your budget, but with a book that your organisation will remember for a long time.

Check out the site here.

So, that’s the letter. Please, comment in any way. I intend to send it in about two weeks time.

What was that? That was your life, mate!*

I’m sure many people in my industry hear the question as often as I do: “So, why do you work in recruitment?”

The glib answer that falls off of my tongue is: “because you can change people’s lives”.

There’s no more satisfying feeling than when you ring that superb candidate to tell them they have the role that they really wanted – as a matchmaker, you’ve consummated a successful relationship: one that may last many years, if not virtually forever.

But like matchmaking, that’s not always the case.

Nevertheless, if you’ve done your job well, you feel the world is a better place.

It’s easy for us to get wrapped up in our own self-importance. “Thanks to me, that company has gone from strength to strength since I appointed the new General Manager/ CEO/ Chauffeur/ Accountant/ Washroom Attendant” is a pretty comfortable thought pattern.

You have a lovely smug feeling about the great job you did for your client. But for me, it’s always about the candidate. I like to think that a brand new, better paying, challenging role; particularly for a nice candidate, is a massive life-changing event.

I fell into recruitment after spending the early part of my career in PC sales, primarily to families. I loved the feeling that the PC was for many people (and we’re talking late ‘80s, early 90’s) one of the most significant and expensive purchases they would make. I loved being part of that commitment.

So, that paints a picture. I wonder how many out there are like me. 43, happy with life, feel like you’re making a difference.

At 17, I had different ideas. I was about to conquer the rock world and explode onto the world stage. I was sure of it! As part of a three-part post-punk band who were almost certainly the best or, at worst, second best band in the country town I grew up in; myself, Paul and Charlie were destined for big things. But unbelievably; something slipped ‘twixt cup and lip. Perhaps it was my overwhelming lack of talent.

The other two guys were very important to me, but after high school we scattered across Australia, and until last year, I had not much idea where they were. Then Facebook happened.

Thanks to Facebook, I’m now in semi-regular contact with various people I knew 20, 30 or more years ago.

That’s how I know that Charlie – my best mate in the world for maybe 2 years in the early ‘80s – graduated with two degrees from university a week or so ago – at the same time as being diagnosed with a condition that the words “life-threatening” hardly do justice.

In another hour I’ll be in the office, struggling to tell myself that the sourcing exercise I’ll be working on is as important today as it was on Friday.

I’ve often heard people use the phrase “Get some perspective”. But to quote the late and great Douglas Adams “if life is going to exist in a Universe of this size, then the one thing it cannot afford to have is a sense of proportion”

*(The title for this blog post is a quote from Monty Python’s meaning of life. I was tossing up between that and “Vale of Tears”; but if you’re looking for a quote, Monty Python wins every time.)

Be daring: Approve of Social Intercourse at work!

The title of this blog, if read too fast, might cause some consternation.

Whilst it might then seem less problematic; on a second read, it probably isn’t.

In Australia, we have a jobs boom. It’s pretty tight for candidates right across the board in every state. Smart recruiters are having a great time. I certainly am!

What makes it  difficult is outdated management theory in both general management and HR.

One of the types of management thinking that is really at issue is outdated attitudes to flexibility. Technology offers so much freedom – and yet management can’t pass that on. However, that’s the subject of an article I’m penning, so let’s move on.

Social Intercourse: Oh yes! That’s what every workplace has that is unique. If you are addicted to The Bold and The Beautiful or Neighbours,you can find people in every workplace that share your tragic obsession. But if you’re addicted to the ebb and flow of friendships, the achievements and the highlights, the scandals and the office politics at work; then how can you leave?

Of course, it’s best to avoid the aforementioned scandals and office politics, and good employers add good stuff that is remarkable so that their staff share a common experience that is outside of the ordinary.

Psychologists say that shared experiences bond us. That’s why eating a meal with a client is a damn fine thing.

The best bonding experiences have been found to be dangerous situations, or wacky and absurd ones. Since tying your staff to the railway lines is likely to cause a stir in OH&S circles, why not try something wacky?

Institute the 15-minute weekend catchup – from 9am to 9:15 on Monday, staff may not do anything else but gather in the kitchen and talk about their weekends. Have a big clock that counts down and then emits a loud chime to send them all scurrying back.

Have a theme every casual day. I once convinced a new starter that on Fridays you could only dress in colours that occur in Liquorice Allsorts. (She turned up in black, pink and lime green!). Offer a prize for worst tie day (customer contact people may need to bring two).

Encourage staff to eat together by sponsoring themed lunches every fortnight. For a few bucks per head experience something different each time. For example, a Mexican meal (unless your office is in Mexico) or a build-your-own-sandwich buffet

There is a lot written about having fun at work. But as more places get switched on to this, companies can race to outbid each other in the ‘fun’ department. The trick is to get your people interacting.

Is it dangerous to office discipline to encourage office friendships? How can it be? Millions of companies have a “refer a friend” policy. so how can it be acceptable to be friends before you work together, and not form a friendship in the workplace? And office discipline is a bit of a myth – set clear boundaries on confidentiality and professionalism, but understand that staff talk, whether you like it or not.

I’m out to collect great examples of social interaction at work, and your comments will be a great start. My stats say 64 people read this blog – so two each gives me over a hundred!

Now that is is genuinely a once weekly-ish blog, and since the title is “Musings and Rants”, next time I’ll provide a full bore rant! Tune in then.

It’s not Web 2.0

Web 2.0 is here, and entrepreneurs and marketers are rushing to cash in.

And most of them just don’t get it.

Web 2.0 is often described as interactive information on-line. And for those people who want to describe it as such, then go ahead. Because it’s also about diversity of opinion. About welcoming that diversity, and airing those opinions.

No longer is it the loudest or strongest that can have an opinion.

Take web star Dave Mendoza. Dave is a humble, quiet, thoughtful sort of guy. Ten years ago, in any group of three, Dave would be the one who would struggle to get his point across.

Yet with sheer hard work, he has built sixdegreesfromdave.com into the world’s most respected recruitment blog, opened up great possibilities for himself and built a dream business, can now travel and have everyone else in the room – virtual room or real room – hang on his every word.

Is it just a geek phenomenon? Is thoughtful and insightful, or just plain clever, the newest fad? Take Shally Steckerl, Sourcing Guru, who specialises in deep web searching within recruitment. He seems uncomfortable in front of the huge crowds that flock to his seminars, and it’s easy to imagine him happiest in a dim room with a double screen and a bottle of water, typing away and looking satisfied as the magic he weaves brings forth the results.

So, is it just the rise of the geek, as foreshadowed by Bill Gates many years ago?

No; I don’t think so. Take Kevin Wheeler.

Kevin’s smart, but he’s no geek. A serious entrepreneur; a passionate advocate for change; a polished performer. If it wasn’t for the complete lack of arrogance, he’d be like so many before him.

But Kevin’s different. Shally’s different. Dave’s different. Yet they are all Web 2.0 stars. So where’s the connection?

It’s easy. They are all incredibly generous of spirit. They are passionate givers, providing information in the second information age. They all believe that if you give enough of yourself; people will see that and reward you with front-of-mind status – you will be the only logical choice when there’s serious consulting to be done.

Which brings me to my point: Web 2.0. It’s really not about the web at all. It’s about people.

The web is a refection of twenty years of collaboration. It’s bringing together people who found their PC was the place to care and share; to find stuff out and to help others.

People are changing. Web 2.0 is just a symptom; a necessary technological mindshift.

Henry Ford. Neil Ludd. Steve Jobs. Bill Gates. That guy from IBM who predicted there would be no market for home computers. None of these people are famous just because of who they were – rather because of the technology that changed in a manner that was intermingled with people; and the way they embraced or rejected it.

I’m not sure that in 100 years people will tell Dave, Shally or Kevin stories. But they will tell stories about people who broke the rules, who gave their time and expertise freely; who transmuted that into a business and personal opportunity that those who merely try to sell content – without giving – can only dream about.

It’s the rise of the individual; the winds of change for the corporation; it’s a wakeup call for politicians; theocrats and ideologues: You won’t change people with the Web – the Web is changing to suit the will of its user-base: it’s the ultimate democracy and its leaders don’t represent a party; they represent the kind of person many of us would like to be.

Three Cities in Two Days

Wednesday morning traffic’s very light, probably because it’s 5:30am. Past IKEA, park near the doors; wander through the still-sparkling terminal; smiling Virgin Blue Service and I’m in Sydney.

The taxi driver is from Mali and plays bass guitar; I love the music of Mali and also play bass, so it’s a very enjoyable trip until his satnav packs up at Darling Harbour and it turns out he can’t read a map.

Do the business I need to in Sydney. Pass some quality time with quality people.

Sydney’s a harlot. Flirty and flash; you can’t help but enjoy the sensual thrill of the Sydney attitude: everybody’s welcome, exactly as you are. It’s an attitude that feels a little racy to the country bumpkinism of my long-distant upbringing.

I love Sydney, but it’s like the upswing of a manic depressive; and to live there, I think you’d see both ends. I like to visit, say hello, peck its saucy cheek and leave before I feel too comfortable or too uncomfortable.

Sleep in Chinatown’s heart; hit the airport as the sun comes up. Wander through Sydney Airport; aromatherapy shop provides the perfect olfactory breakfast, to supplement the meagre rations that my descent from obesity requires.

The bumpy takeoff, bumpy flight and bumpy landing don’t dissuade the all-male cabin crew, who are wonderfully gay in both senses but mostly in the Enid Blyton meaning of happiness and lightness of being; it’s almost like Sydney is with us on the plane.

Maybe they’re so happy because we’ll be staying in Melbourne and they won’t; like people are forcedly cheerful around the terminally ill.

And the terminal is ill – surely the most slovenly airport in Australia.

Outside to grey, grey wind; whereas Sydney’s rain had been sparse, warm and so strollable, Melbourne’s grimy atmosphere presses down like a musty blanket.

I lined up outside the taxi cab rank – a pompous official decided the line should move elsewhere which cost me 15 places – got in a worn-out taxi. The driver kept telling me he didn’t understand what I was saying – Collins Street – and then laughed. “I know”, he roared.” I was just showing what would have happened if you’d got one of those f***ing Africans”. So began my forty minute immersion if the problems of the taxi industry in Melbourne; the irony being the guy who had all the answers was not helping the Minister solve the problems, he was driving me to Collins Street.

More meetings and lovely hospitality; now I find myself with three hours to shop in Melbourne. Carrying an overnight bag and a laptop, the wind is so horrible that I have a bite then head to the airport three hours early. Didn’t think that through – four hours in Melbourne Airport. Get a good cup of tea.

More smiles and wings and as the sun sets over the Gulf I’m 500 metres above Adelaide Oval.

There is no place as beautiful as I touch down and am home.

The Enforced Loneliness of the Long-Distance Author

As an author, it can be hard to find the right amount of loneliness.

An author? What makes one an author?

In my case, I feel the fact that I’ve written a book. Not how many I’ve sold (not many), not fame and fortune (still some way off), not the thrill of having an international best seller (as if I’d know).

So, I’m an author. And this means I need to be lonely.

Even though JK Rowling wrote the first Harry Potter in a café, it probably wasn’t Quiz Night or during a morning mothers’ meeting, prams around the tables and chatter about whom what doing what to whomever else and why.

Ever the most spasmodic of bloggers knows you need a little time to yourself to write.

With a full-time job and a full-time family; I found my own patch of loneliness in the mornings.

At first it was when I felt like it. Some mornings. When I didn’t go fishing, or do a spot of reading, or watch the pay TV news that starts really early, or get out a guitar, or play solitaire… you get the drift.

After eighteen months and less than a quarter of a book, I started to regiment my loneliness.

Seven days a week, 5:15 to 5:45 a.m., I wrote. Finished the damn thing off in three months. Or so I thought. But more on that later.

My loneliness was precious to me. I knew it was going to happen. It meant I could gather stray thoughts during the day, knowing they’d have a home the next morning.

Most mornings that was about five hundred words. Sometimes I went a bit longer on weekends

Legend has it that when Ian Fleming wrote the James Bond novels in the Caribbean he had a pattern: one thousand words and then a lovely lunch; another thousand and then a swim and a stroll on the beach; another thousand and off to a cocktail party surrounded by local beauties. Perhaps his PR firm wrote that bit..

But even motoring along at one-sixth of a Fleming, I got there.

I got very cranky if anyone else in my household got up early. With the utmost grace, I encouraged them to go back to bed or do something else. I almost insisted, without being too obnoxious. Maybe a little obnoxious.

More than three weeks on the overseas holiday of a lifetime did not interfere. Everyday, half an hour. Sat on a hill in Menorca. Propped my laptop up on a hotel fountain in Singapore. Wrote the introduction at deserted bus stop using pilfered internet access at 5:15 one fine Lake District morning as the sun considered adding the colour back to an eerily grey landscape.

And so, I have a book and call myself an author.

When I was writing, I only shared it with two people. One was a good friend who I knew would never say a bad word about it. This was a very indulgent form of reassurance. The other was a good friend who is a professional editor. I knew that from her, criticism would be professional and constructive.

I was terrified of showing it to my wife. I was terrified of the truth.

And I knew I’d get the truth. And if that truth was negative, I’d never be able to continue. So I waited until I’d finished and handed it over. I was thrilled when she loved it.

It was tricky. I knew I’d written a solid business book. With vampires. Time travellers. Thought-controlled Toasters.

I wanted a book that was good fiction, but that had something to offer someone who wanted to build their business, or build their career, and do it creatively. I never once asked if I was doing too much; trying to put too much into it.

For me the quality of the fiction has been the surprise. I printed five copies myself, bound them with rubber bands and gave them to five people to look through, proof-read and comment. One  proof-reader wrote “I cried” in the margin at the end of one of the stories.

(Incidentally, my Mother, who is staying with us, just got up and asked for a cup of tea. Was I cranky? A bit. Where was I?)

So now I’m an author. I’ve got something I’ve proud of. And another form of loneliness.

I’ve now got to convince the world my crazy, self-published book (see www.1001nights.com.au) is worth buying.

I’ve got to become a long distance author; selling my stories to the global village. And that needs more loneliness; more time thinking about what I need before the day starts where I’m Operations Manager, Father, Friend, Son, etc.

Such is the addiction of writing. Such is the addiction of loneliness.

Ash Wednesday in the City of Trees

I know what I was doing exactly 25 years ago today, about 4 o’clock in the afternoon, and into the evening.

I was standing with a small man with a beard who played the violin badly and whose name has not survived the ravages of 25 years on my brain, the lady who ran the boarding house I lived in at the time and whose moniker is just as completely lost, and Barry.

Barry, my schizophrenic room-mate who upset me by being my room-mate; for I had moved more than 500 kilometres from home expecting a single room in the boarding house; only to find that there had allegedly been some sort of mix-up. A mix-up that saved my parents $6 per week, but that wasn’t much of a silver lining as far as I was concerned.

Due to my lack of understanding about his condition, I was a bit worried about Barry; but he was a genuinely nice man; and in the few months I was in the boarding house – before I managed to convince my parents to lift my allowance  and get out of there– he was very helpful and kind. Then again; he was on his medication. Apparently, he had tendency to believe the Russians were after him if he did not stick with the drugs.

So there we were – myself, the bearded man, the grasping landlady and Barry- standing on a front verandah in Strangways terrace, North Adelaide, looking at the orange glow on the hills as sunset fell.

Given that we lived on exclusive Adelaide real estate – I’m pretty sure there’s no boarding house there now, across from the Royal Adelaide Golf course on the fringe of the parklands – we often saw such colours as night approached. But usually we were looking west, not east. And there wasn’t the blanket of smoke.

Adelaide. I moved here in 1983 for year’s study from my home in the country. I’ve lived here ever since. There’s a strong sense of history for such a young city – 1836 seems so recent by comparison to the rest of the world.

But we take our uniqueness very seriously. To give internationals some perspective; we’ve got more land area than London with about the population of Birmingham. Spread along thirty kilometres of beaches the greater metropolitan areas is very spacious, overwhelmingly single story houses on blocks that used to be a quarter of an acre, but recent years have shaved this size at the margins, and some of the grand old houses have been ripped down and replaced with two or three units.

Our founder Colonel Light had a vision that the CBD would be surrounded by parklands, and we have clung to this with religious zeal; only a few developments breaking up the perfect ring of parks that ring the city and form a barrier in the psyche of every South Australian between ‘town’ and the suburbs.

The joy of my drive to work each morning is to crest the last hill on the Southern Expressway – a grandiose title for a road that would be little more than a small bypass In many cities around the world – and behold  the City of Trees, laid our before me with houses between jacarandas and gums, all across the plain. A few modest high-rises occupy just two small pockets in my vision.

Of course, behind me are modern developments, where McMansions are crammed together like mismatching teeth, and where there are no trees. No trees? If I believed in Hell, I’d like to see the developers burn there for this crime. Or harsher but more poetic, they should be made to live in the soulless caricatures of a community that springs from their usurious drafting stations.

There are just a million of us, spread across Adelaide. Another hundred thousand comprise the whole state. A state roughly twice the size of California with one thirty-sixth the population.

Back then, we had to include all the country folk just to make the million. A million people all thinking about fire.

It’s rare that we are thinking the same things as our neighbours and arch-rivals; the citizens of the state of Victoria, Normally we treat them with contempt; like all the other prison colonies made goods that form Australia’s other state capitals, we see Melbourne as pretty undesirable, and during the football season we bay for their blood.

Seventy-five lives later, we were united in grief. It shows us how good life is in Australia –when ten or twenty or indeed seventy-five lives are lost; it’s a disaster that leaves an indelible impression. Yet more people die shopping in Bagdad on a regular basis in these awful days.

Still, Bagdad has had a while to get used to it. In its former guise as Babylon, it has been held by the Assyrians, the Persians, the Greeks and plenty of others. And while the Age of Heroes was being played out between the Tigris and Euphrates; here in Adelaide on the banks of the Torrens, the Kaurna people where living alongside nature.

It’s said that the Kaurna used controlled burn-offs to keep themselves safe from fire. Our volunteer fire-fighters do that today.

Ash Wednesday should never happen again. Twenty-eight South Australian lives proved that you shouldn’t let trees touch power lines. That you need top notch communication between emergency agencies.  And that you need a bushfire action plan, which a recent survey showed thirteen percent of homeowners in potential danger spots have.

Thirteen percent?

Nature is nature and people are people. Since Ash Wednesday, we’ve lost more people to bushfires, one or two or five at a time.

Thirteen percent?

If  the bearded man, the landlady or Barry are alive today and live in a bushfire danger zone, I’d like to think that the hours we spent watching the horizon burn just twenty kilometres away has made sure that they are in that thirteen percent.