Sunday, December 20, 2009
A Look Ahead
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
A Month of Music
September Update: School
Monday, September 21, 2009
Designers Accord
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Digital Friction
I recently read a great post by Seth Godin about what he called "friction."
Drugstore.com made two mistakes with their relationship with me. First, they bought the lie that opt out is a productive strategy. They unilaterally decided that I'd be delighted to get regular emails from them, merely because I bought some shaving cream.
The second mistake? They didn't bother to be selective about what they sent.
I've never purchased diapers online, since my diaper purchases predate online diaper shopping. And my hope is that I won't be buying Depends for another fifty years or so. Drugstore.com should know this. And yet, because it's apparently free to email me, some lame brand manager says, "sure, do it!" Except then I unsubscribe and an asset that is worth ten or a hundred or a thousand dollars disappears, probably forever.
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I think this kind of friction pertains to most group work also. I'll use ministry as my example, although this could apply to student organizations, non-profit work, etc.
If you've ever led a small group or hc you know what I'm talking about. You know the feeling of emailing your group only to get little/no response, to your frustration. You might even re-email with reminders, in the hopes of getting a response. Then you might get one. Or you might not.
While I'm not saying that everyone fails to e-mail back because of this kind of idea friction, I am saying that it has a large part to do with many of these outcomes. Think about it - do you read every event, prayer meeting, donation, update, and church forward sitting in your mailbox, waiting to be opened?
If we're honest, we'd realize that at some point, we condition ourselves not to read the emails from high-volume e-mailers, from people who we know are going to bury us under paragraphs of dreary agenda and/or complicated prose. We could also become so annoyed that we start complaining to our friends about it, leaving the bad taste in their mouths also.
If we struggle with this as a reader, how can we expect anything different from our followers? I know from personal experience the disappointment that can arise when I send out encouragement, reminders, and meeting recap/agendas, and I can tell no one reads them. No one replies, and you wonder if your effort meant much at all.
So as a leader - and as a person who wants to spread ideas and encourage spiritual growth, interest in service work or passion for social justice - remember friction as you email. Choose wisely. Don't email everyone with everything, although in theory it should work. Not everyone is interested in everything, and in reality, most people are interested in less than you'd think. There are other ways - blogging, voluntary subscription to newsletters, in-person meetings - to update those who are interested in what's going on without being burned by the friction of people who really aren't.
I've learned to send directed emails, and to send short emails. I only send them to people who I really think would benefit from them. Yes, it's meant more thought on my part, more editing of the content, and a tough divorce from the idea of sending stuff out on huge email lists. The (wrong) instinct goes something like this: "Why not CC the whole group on this new update or idea? It's free, easy, I can just type their name in, and it's better that they have it than if they didn't."
The truth is that many times it's not better that they just have it, it's actually worse. So my best advice is to be thoughtful and as Godin suggests, recognize and "embrace the friction." The cost of not doing so is too far too high.
A link to Seth's "friction" post: http://sethgodin.typepad.com/seths_blog/2009/09/friction.html
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Home Grown
Saturday, September 12, 2009
The Road Home
Charles straightened, stretching his back and letting out a brisk sigh. Craning his head upward, he rubbed his neck in deep circles. His memory of the last few days were like the mile markers streaking into dirty green across the windshield, blurred and patchy.
After the offer was made, he’d packed his things and gotten the rest of his business in order: Letters were written, gifts were bought; he had even remembered to change mailing addresses and cancel his classes. He’d even had a few meals with friends.
But on the road now, he didn’t know how to feel. Tinges of sadness and regret lingered; the imprints of hope and possibility too. There’d been pressure from parents, and from within, followed by waves of doubt and uncertainty. But their memories seemed to flutter over his mind only briefly, scattered quickly by the busyness. Perhaps he’d kept himself busy on purpose, to avoid his dense emotions. He couldn’t remember.
* * * * *
The hours passed, and Charles drove. His mind wandered slowly, from Houston to Los Angeles, and back. He remembered long roads like this, traveled with friends and broken only by forays into blue bonnet fields.
He wandered into memories of long, quiet streams - the soft trickling water, the steady sound of oars, the quiet conversations traded across canoes.
He startled at the memories of good jokes, of friends bent over in laughter, shaking so hard they couldn’t breathe.
Charles grinned softly at the memories, watching the people and events return slowly, one by one.
As the hours passed, Charles drove. Ahead, the sun was finishing its slow dive beneath the clouds. A distant windmill cut the dimming light into sprays of purple.
And as the light faded, Charles felt a small wave of anticipation well up within him. It came lightly, without warning or announcement; without defining moment or epiphany. It approached fragile and soft, like the purple rays draping the hills, moving as a light breeze against his heart.
Charles checked his mirrors and switched on his headlights. As another road sign approached, he swept his hair aside and squinted through his glasses. A wide smile spread across his face as he found the white letters, flashing brightly now against the fading light.
Houston: 326 miles.