Working for yourself does allow some perks. Non-location-specific working. So this morning, I headed out to one of my favourite haunts in Bridport, Dorset and made myself comfortable at The Bull Hotel – with their great coffee, smooth tunes, and roaring fire. It’s April, and it’s freezing.
But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.
This wasn’t a purely social outing – it was a business meeting with local well-known photographer Faye Neal (check out her Facebook Page here). With both of us heavily involved in the annual Buckham Fair event that takes place in Beaminster every year, it was time to get together to talk about all things Marketing – and how we can raise the profile of the event even more.
It didn’t take long and we were blasting through ideas and jotting down lists of things to do / setup / create / talk about.
But what struck me, is that once again – I was sitting across from a professional who had decided to take the leap, and do her own thing. And as we shared ideas and tips together (her with photography tips for me, and me with social media tips for her), I realised that so many of us sit with a very similar thought, at some point in our lives. The thought that we’d like to one day do our own thing. But very few of us take that step. We like the security. We like the routine. We like the safety.
I’m still new in my game – but so far, I can only say that, albeit sometimes hellishly scary, it’s just pretty damn exciting.
Don’t get me wrong – I find myself working twice as hard as I ever did before – establishing my own routine, giving all my clients and commitments the time I’ve promised, thinking ahead to the next avenue of business when this project comes to an end, not getting drawn into those moments when business isn’t forthcoming. But, just like Faye, I knew I had a talent somewhere. And forming that into a business that people would actually want to pay for was the key. Once I’d done that – I was on my way. I still am. I am not 100% there yet – but I’m moving. And that’s all that counts right now.
I’m so incredibly thankful.
Perhaps working for myself wasn’t as hard as I thought?
I have this incredible client. She’s just recently decided to take the brave step of taking her innate skill and turn that into a full-time business. And for all of us who have been there, and done that – let’s just take a moment. Sit back, smile and think of your own experience – that very moment when you decided to stop your main lifeline and switch currents towards your own creation – from scratch. The fear, excitement, panic that you felt. Those midnight slogs to finish just 1 thing that you have to get done (because you don’t have a team of people that get it done for you anymore…). That fleeting moment when someone asks what you do, and you tell them that you work for yourself, and they nod, almost sympathetically. Those times that someone calls you up to hang out – because they have the day off, and surely you’re not THAT busy because you’re your own boss now, and can determine when to have coffee… right? But I digress.
So, let’s call her Jemima. Jemima has just decided to start her own business and has asked me for some help getting her business brand broadcastable. So I’ve helped her with her website, and some ideas on social media. I’ve done a few design-based things for her, and just a few general bits and bobs to arm her with whatever she needs to make her business awesome.
Jemima’s teaching me such a great lesson. And I don’t think she will ever quite understand how important this little lesson has been. You see, Jemima knows exactly what she wants, and what she doesn’t want. So as I’ve been creating, and writing, Jemima, as is customary, reviews each stage of development, as requested by myself, to ensure that I’m tracking along with her vision, her tone, her output. But this is where the story becomes the lesson.
Jemima has dutifully been sending back her edits and change requests to me – make a tweak here, change this there, remove this – love that. You know the sort. But what struck me is how apologetic she has been towards amending that which I have essentially created in words. But what she doesn’t realise is that her input is GOLD. You see, Marketers spend a lot of time figuring things out, testing things, playing with things – but we are not magicians. We are not miracle-workers (although, we do sometimes achieve some pretty awesome things!). We are not islands – and what Jemima doesn’t realise is that her input – regardless of how it comes across, or how offensive she thinks it may be to the creator (ie: ME), what she is doing is getting involved. She is involved in her brand. Her story. Her tone. Her message. The only one who can absolutely effectively broadcast the tone of the business that SHE has created, is HER. And with her being involved – together, we shape a pretty amazing brand.
It’s exciting.
There’s a line, I guess, that I hear old Marketing stalwarts whisper in my ears, of where the customer turns from being the involved, into the creation-damper. But THAT is where the essence of a good Marketeer determines how you handle that.
Thank you, Jemima, for being involved.
Look. I’m going to be honest with you. Social Media marketing is not hard. In fact, it’s actually quite simple. And if the amount of followers and fans keep growing, and you are not quite sure why – well, then chances are…. you’re doing it right.
I recently had a twitter chat with Alan K’necht – author of The Last Original Idea and general all-round cool digital guy, about the tools that he found useful for Social Media analytics and management. His response to me got me thinking. “What… other than the one between our ears?”, he said.
He’s right. Social Media is not about having the best tools, or the biggest budget to do cool things. Social media is about knowing what to say, and knowing who you want to say it to. It’s about having something to say that people will find interesting and will want to listen to.
So, yes, Alan. It most certainly is about using your brain.
Case in point: One of my clients who is just starting out her business – not a lot of marketing experience, but figuring it out as she goes along – and has developed such a great following already, just in the few weeks of going “live” – that it dawned on me. We can ALL social – if we just know what we’re trying to say.
Social Media is no different to a cocktail party. Picture it – you arrive, and you start to chat to a couple of people in the joint. Some are well-known, some not so much. Some have interesting things to say, and some just keep repeating the same garbled nonsense over and over again. What do you naturally want to do? You levitate towards those who have something interseting to say, that you are into – and you start to hide from those who want to flood you with too much self-promotion, too much nonsense. They pretend they know everything and want to show you how much you know. In fact, they start to make you feel completely insecure by the amount that they (apparently) know.
Nah. You levitate yourself out of that situation… swiftly.
So – why offer Social Media management services, Katy? Aren’t you just trying to commercialise something that you’ve JUST said most people can naturally do?
Sure. But the question you have to ask yourself is: Do you have the TIME to invest in keeping conversations going? By that I mean – are you a one-hit wonder who splurges all the latest social media stuff, manage to find some followers and keep them engaged for a while, and then slowly slink back into your old habits? That’s where I, and people like me, come in. We can help.
Our JOB is to keep at it. Our job is to be your voice. Sure – you can dip in and out when you want to – but we’re there for the times when you are simply just trying to run your business, pay the bills, get the job done.
See how that works?
Why not give us a call. And if we think you’re doing a great job already – we’ll tell you.
Walking the Spaniel this morning, I felt a distinct whisper of Spring. I couldn’t see it, but I knew it was there. The smell of snowdrops circled my nose and the morning chill had lost its bite. Spaniel seemed to be able to tell the difference too. On her 6th lap of the field, she still didn’t think it was an appropriate time to go home and I was left to admire my favourite tree and 
take in the view of the surrounding valleys, pastures and bleating sheep in the next field.
Moving to the countryside, I’d sort of lost the typical look-over-your-shoulder-be-wary-of-strange-folk feeling that I’d developed in Cape Town. Happy to say that it wasn’t an all-consuming sense of threat, but rather the typical locking of doors when you make a journey, especially at highway off-ramps, or slowing down and going vs stopping completely when arriving at red traffic lights on empty roads. It was an awareness of things and people around you, most of the time. Living in Beaminster, I’d started becoming more lax about things – forgetting my car open, leaving the back door unlocked at night. I was now living in a house without burglar bars and security gates on the front door, none of the things that remind you of anything untoward.
Until there was a ring on the doorbell one Saturday afternoon. My Englishman opened the door, and I could hear the faint sound of a woman’s voice. By his reactions and the tone of his voice, the strained politeness, I could tell he was incredibly uncomfortable. So I went to interfere. Or help, as I like to put it.
There stood a middle-aged woman – slightly disheveled, breath laden with the smell of Jack or even Captain Morgan himself. One plastic packet in her hand, shoes untied, not making eye-contact. She’d decided to wander into Beaminster, from the next village over the hill and with 4pm striking, realised that she wasn’t going to get back before nightfall. She had noticed all the cars on the driveway and decided to ring our bell to ask us to take her home.
What can you do? I was foreign to this situation. I would most likely have had my sentences rehearsed and organised, was I back in South Africa, but I didn’t understand this situation. My gut instinct was telling me that something dubious was ahead, but my head kept insisting that this instinct was based and built on a very different environment and upbringing.
Needless to say, both Englishman and I were at a loss for words. We didn’t have a lie ready, and we both felt too uncomfortable to kindly ask her to go away, so I volunteered to drive her to the village. For the first time since arriving on the shores of this green and pleasant land, I was slightly fearful. I grabbed my phone – thinking that it may save me should I be, I don’t know, at the hands of some unmerciful ax-murderer.
I didn’t care for the speed limit, nor the potholes in the road that led me to the next town – I just wanted to get there. She just wanted to talk. She, or it may have been The Captain, told me about her life, and her struggles, and her husband, and her son, and how life had generally just been unkind to her. We arrived at the hill leading into the village, and she asked me to drop her off there. It was deserted – there was nobody around. I insisted on driving her to her house (where hopefully, there were people around), but she declined. So I stopped.
She hopped out. Thanked me. And without fuss, trundled down the hill towards her home.
Driving back to Beaminster, I felt like an utter fool. My paranoia and second-guessing had created an experience in my mind that implied that this would be my demise. After 3 years of un-noticeably becoming alkaline to any sense of disturbance or imposition, my built-in, almost innate sense of self-protection kicked in.
Whether this lady was a source of real concern or whether she was just simply someone who had been dealt a rough set of cards and was looking for a lift home – I’ll never know.
But I’ve never seen her again.
And I did start locking the back door.
One thing you cannot deny about living in a little town in the English countryside, is the invaluable opportunity to be exposed to the worlds of Thomas Hardy, Beatrix Potter, Jane Austen (amongst others) and their gardens of hedgehogs, robins, honeysuckles and stone cottages. Before moving to Dorset, never in my life had I experienced the true wonder that is known as the Dawn Chorus. (And I don’t refer to the woman who auditioned for Britain’s Got Talent 5 years ago, that lives down the road).
You find yourself setting your alarm clock to simply catch this sound splendour that is created by local Robins and Sandpipers, Redshanks and Finches and Gulls. You could stand for hours, looking out of your bedroom window, listening to the sounds of a new day completely consume you of your evening’s rest.
I remember, on one particular occasion, volunteering to taxi my Englishman and his friends to and from the local pub. It was a warm summer’s evening and I was thoroughly excited to be driving my new little VW Beetle convertible that I’d just purchased. My cuckoo clock had just chimed 2 o’clock (am) and I hopped into the Beetle and zoomed through the country lanes, roof down, to pick up the partying lot. Even then, at that time of night, the birdsong guided my drive. Even at that time of night, these feathered friends had something joyful to sing about. Even at that time of night – the evening skies shook with their twitters and chirps.
Much was the same fascination the moment I saw my first badger. A real, living, breathing racing-striped badger. The animals I’d come to know in the pages of Kenneth Grahame, where a toad lived in a hall and a mild-mannered mole decides to leave his spring-cleaning habits and explore the riverbank. Little stocky characters they are, and speedy too. We’d seen a glimpse of a badger running along a country lane one evening, in the light beam of my car, busily looking for evening nibbles and snacks. You can understand my excitement at the opportunity to watch them scurrying about at a local farm that had set up a badger hide. A controversial idea, given the recent flurry surrounding culls and bovine TB in the area, and one that was, no doubt, frowned upon by some local farmers. But a gift of an opportunity to experience a precious insight into a creature that I’d only had the opportunity to imagine, before then.
Dorset is a beautiful place to live and to visit. As I let the Spaniel out for her evening constitutionals before bedtime, last night, I stood in our garden, as the stars flickered brightly in the black sky overhead, and the frost started icing the grass, closed my eyes, and listened. An owl, a seagull, and even a faraway fox. All going about their normal lives and completely unaware of this foreign voyeur.