Not selling so hard
Boopers, you say? I’ll be right there! (John Margolies, 1989)
I would argue that This American Life is the spiritual ancestor of a great many podcasts.
Like so many works of art, from the songs and guitar stylings of Chuck Berry to the stand-up comedy of Steve Martin, the show’s influence is so pervasive that it is all but invisible.
But when it first came out, there was nothing like it. I used to time my college laundry runs to take place on Sunday evenings so that I could listen to This American Life on my Sony Walkman while I trekked down to the dorm basement. I was regularly spellbound by the stories I heard, and there are some oldies-but-goodies that I’ve listened to so many times that I know them by heart (like 24 Hours at the Golden Apple, Babysitting, and Fiasco).
The tone of the show varies from journalistic to novelistic, but it always trusts the storytelling to do its work. The pace is patient and measured. The tension is helped along by musical cues and the clever withholding of information, yet you never feel like you’re being manipulated. It never comes off like Ira and the gang are trying too hard. The narratives unfold naturally and effortlessly, as only painstakingly, expertly crafted pieces can. The seams don’t show.
Because the show began its life on the radio, the show and its titles are not optimized for SEO or grabbing your attention as you’re scrolling by on an app. Instead, its titles tend toward the evocative or intriguing. Sometimes they’re nerdy in-jokes (it took me years to realize that Notes on Camp, which is about summer camp, was a playful reference to Susan Sontag’s piece by the same name that has nothing to do with summer camp).
Switched at Birth, which aired as a rerun last weekend, is just called “Switched at Birth.” It’s not “Forty-three years later, a mother reveals a shocking secret,” although she does.
Conventions isn’t called, “An unlikely love story that will break your heart,” although it will.
No, this is a show in which longer attention spans get rewarded. They’re not looking for listeners who will respond to clickbait, so they don’t use it. They want a listenership that is willing to take a chance on something different and has the patience to hang in there through all of the twists and turns of the story, not just the juicy stuff.
Throughout our lives, we are exposed to advice that is meant to work for most of us. Dress this way and you’ll fit in at school. Write your cover letter this way and you’ll get hired. Act this way and you’ll get a second date. Sell this way and you’ll get buyers.
It’s worth considering: Where do we want to fit in? Which people are we looking to connect with? Which clients and colleagues are we looking for? Who are we making our art for?
A friend of mine was told to tone down her passion for her Christian faith by her website designer.
A band was told by their advisors to try to look and sound more mainstream despite being total weirdos.
A colleague was encouraged to stop using profanity in her work.
They all received well-meaning advice that was totally wrong for who they were and who they wanted to attract.
If you want to connect with the maximum number of people, by all means optimize your material, such as the titles of the articles you publish on the web, to tickle the curiosity of the average reader, viewer, or buyer.
Put a sexy photo on your dating profile — or one with a puppy.
But if you aren’t trying for the maximum number of clicks, you don’t have to do it that way. You can be like This American Life and build your relationships more slowly and deliberately.
You may not get as much attention, but the attention you get may be closer to what you’re looking for.
Maybe you don’t need to sell so hard. Maybe attention doesn’t have to be aggressively mined and managed the way you see the big players do. Maybe the subtler way is just fine. Experiment and see what works for you, based on what you’re trying to achieve.
