A little while ago I had a conversation with life and creativity coach Dawn Kotzer. I like Dawn. She lives farther out in the woods than I do, appreciates the power of metaphor, and knows her stuff, inside and out—particularly the inside part.

We were talking about being stretched too thin and what that does to your psyche and professional life when she posed a slightly terrifying question:

“What if you did nothing at all?”

Just for a while. To give my team (for those of you with scorecards, I have a team of one—that would be me) some time to rest.

Nothing?

Cue the anxiety train, thundering toward the level crossing. My unicycle has stalled. Personal Armageddon is bearing down on me at 100 miles per hour.

“They’d forget me in half a second.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course not. I didn’t say I was being rational. I was just answering the question.”

(Practicing self-deprecating humour in unanticipated moments of glaring self-doubt is something I highly recommend. Does wonders for one’s perspective.)

Freakout trumps logic
I know how fast the Internet moves. Today’s Big Thing is in tomorrow’s Hall of Lame. But I also know disappearing off the face of the virtual earth for a week or so wouldn’t render me permanently invisible.

An unexpected question in an unguarded moment triggered a response I knew made no sense, but it didn’t stop me from going there. It was fascinating and a little embarrassing to watch how fast it happened and how badly it threw me, even though I got over myself almost as soon as I said the words.

Knowing a reaction isn’t rational doesn’t always stop the fragile human ego from getting tangled up in a trip wire. Not even when ego and trap are both in full view.

Our curious emotional afflictions
We are not rational creatures. Emotion is one of the things that makes us gifted artists, storytellers and inventors. It’s also what turns us into self-conscious, insecure lunatics.

For creatives, being ignored is the place nightmares come from. Not making money is only part of the big ugly picture titled “Failure.” It’s not just about the money. If it was, you’d have chosen another profession, like corporate accounting (not to cast aspersions on corporate accountants, but if you’re in that line of work and decide to get creative, you might find yourself in a fetching orange jumpsuit).

Artists, craftspeople, writers, designers—we want to be noticed. Appreciated. Just like everyone else. But unlike some other professions, necks get stuck out farther, souls are laid a little more bare. The personal stakes are higher, because it’s you on the line. Every time.

You want to leave your mark on the world. If you didn’t, you’d never try for a show or a sale. Being ignored, or forgotten, might even feel worse than someone hating your work.

Sometimes that pushes you to work to the limits of your endurance. Sometimes the desire to avoid that feeling is so strong you become paralyzed and do little or nothing to get your message out.

Obviously, neither of those strategies work particularly well.

Turn the irrational into an ally
The next time you feel like you just can’t face the beast called Marketing, consider this: your potential buyers are just as human as you are. They have quirks and neuroses and when presented with a particular set of circumstances, turn into self-conscious, insecure lunatics.

Your customers like to feel important, too. They thrive on attention, enjoy the occasional compliment, and want to know they’re more than just another face in the crowd.

Your marketing message isn’t just about you getting noticed. It’s also about how you make your buyers feel, from the moment you introduce yourself—online, in print, or in person—to the time you deliver the finished work.

Buying involves emotion. The quality and intensity varies depending on the individual and the nature of the purchase, but it’s there. Always. When you approach marketing with empathy, you can create a space for you and your buyer that changes “us and them” into just “us.” Your customers become collaborators. You can worry less about proving yourself worthy, because you’re more interested in extending a sincere invitation to people who share common ground.

When you shift your thinking from the business of marketing to connecting with people as real as you are, getting your message out becomes a creative act in itself.

What do you think—is no attention worse than negative attention? Do you get so caught up in the business end of business you forget there are real people out there?

Do you ever have those days? You know, the kind where you’re desperately tired of the business you’re in?

Okay, maybe it’s just me.

We’re not talking much about marketing today. There’s a moral to the story that follows, so if you only have time for that, skip to the end. But you’ll miss the entertainment, which mostly involves laughing at the misadventures of yours truly.

This is how it goes:

I’m a pretty good driver, but sometimes circumstances conspire to put the best of us in situations that make us wish we’d stayed in bed that day.

Long story short: I was in a parkade notorious for tight corners and difficult navigation, and I managed to clip the passenger side mirror when I got too close to a concrete pillar.

I calculated the repair cost as I made my mortified way to the service department of our local car dealer. Then I had an idea. Instead of going to the service desk, I strolled up to the parts counter and asked for a mirror. The guy looked skeptical, but came back with a box.

I gave the assembly a quick once-over and shrugged. “It’s a mirror. It’s not a big deal.”

He took my money with a “Yeah, sure, lady, good luck with that,” expression.

Which meant that not only did I have something to fix, I had something to prove. Jerk.

One of the joys of the internet is the abundance of DIY information. Google the make of your car and the required repair job, and voilà—you have your instructions.

It really wasn’t that difficult, and I was feeling mighty relieved at how quickly I was able to put a side mirror on my car and corresponding bandage on my badly bruised ego.

Inordinately pleased with myself, I commenced an early celebration. Out loud, I declared, ”I rock.”

You know that scene in Lord of the Rings where they’re in the Mines of Moria and Pippin knocks the dead orc down the mine shaft, and the sound echoes for what seems like an eternity? It’s remarkably similar to the sound of a bolt as it falls inside the door assembly of your nearly-repaired vehicle.

I’ll spare you the words that followed.

Doubly offended, I considered my options: automotive fasteners are not available at the local hardware store. There was no way in hell I was going back to our car dealer, just in case the same guy was at the parts desk. There was another dealer, but I’d either have to explain what happened, or cook up a really good story that they probably wouldn’t believe anyway.

Not going to happen.

Back to Google, to figure out how to take the door apart. The only trouble I had was with the window crank, because the instructions I found weren’t doing the job. Fortunately, my father’s good with cars, and he gave me a tip on how to take the crank apart.

It took a while to find the bolt, and a while longer to extract it from the tiny crevice where it had become lodged. But I got it, and decided to feel grateful rather than triumphant. I reassembled the door (turns out brute force rather than finesse got the damnable window crank back together), and very carefully installed the new side mirror.

You’d never know it wasn’t the original.

And so, dear friends, here are the lessons learned: never get cocky about a DIY repair job. At least, not until it’s done, you’re certain you don’t have any mysterious parts left over, and you’re absolutely sure it won’t fall apart if you look at the thing sideways.

As far as business and marketing go, don’t be afraid to be a real person with your customers. And don’t get cocky with your marketing, either.

Over to you: any instant karma stories to share? What do you do when you get tired of talking about business?

A few months ago, I read a story about entrepreneurs who had a great idea and a tight budget. They turned that idea into a very successful business that sells skin care products. I liked the story, but what really grabbed me was the description of what they sell.

My guy doesn’t like to shave because he has very sensitive skin. As a result, he avoids it. After about four days of beard growth, I want to stand on his chest and hack the mess off with a bread knife. He doesn’t think it’s flattering, either, and I can’t really blame him for avoiding irritated skin, so I wanted to buy him something good for his skin so shaving wouldn’t be unpleasant. I was happy to pay top dollar to do it.

Long story short: a $100 order would have cost $40 to ship. I almost spent the extra cash (I have this odd fondness for my significant other). But nearly half again to get it here, and no other shipping options? I cancelled the order process and looked for the contact page on the website.

This is where everything went into the ditch.

As I was typing a message about the hair-raising shipping cost, I got an email from the company. I set up an account at the start of the order process which automatically generated a welcome message. Imagine my delight at the offer of free shipping for orders of over $100.

No, wait. Check the fine print. Right. The offer is only good for continental USA.

I believe this is what we call “irony.”

For the non-techie types out there, here’s a tip: it’s not rocket science to capture the country code in an online database. It does not require splitting atoms to send US customers a message that includes an offer for free shipping, and a different message to the people who don’t qualify. If a company has enough cash to throw at a top-notch website, they can manage to get their auto-responder message right.

By “right” I mean not telling all your customers that people who live in a certain region get special treatment, while the rest of us can piss off. It’s the Internet. Bigshot businesses have the ability to process data immediately and respond accordingly. They can customize their message. Microbusinesses have ways to do that, too, without trashing the budget. It mostly requires more work, at least at first, but it can be done.

Now let’s put some icing on my cupcake.

When I sent my message about the high shipping cost and how it was unfortunate that no other options were available for Canadian customers, the contact page promised messages would be responded to within 24-48 hours. I sent mine on Sunday, so bump it up to the next business day. It’s not a complicated issue. They can either offer the US Postal Service as an option, or not (and if they can, it should be in the online order process). So far, no response. Do they have a backlog of messages because of the holiday gift buying season? No idea. Was my order too small to bother with? No idea.

The company also promises to send out online orders within 24-48 hours. Should I believe that? Good question.

I got another email this morning offering free shipping. I unsubscribed from the email list and deleted the message.

Here’s the big lesson: when you’re selling online (or by conventional mail-order catalogue, for that matter), take a step back and walk through your entire process, from first contact to delivery, as if you were a customer. Better yet, get a non-techie person to walk through it while you sit beside them and take notes. Every step of the way.

This is also a sound practice for in-person selling, but it’s critical when you don’t have immediate contact with your customer. When you’re face to face, the conversation is fluid. You can address problems, questions and objections in real time. When you get technology to do your talking for you, you’d better make sure you have your message sorted out and be prepared to keep your promises about delivery and response time. If you promise a certain number of days, be prepared to keep your word.

If you don’t, you could get a snarky marketing type writing a blog post about how you messed up her Christmas idea for her squeeze. If you’re really lucky, she won’t name names, because that’s not the way she rolls, but she’ll still be mad at you and won’t recommend you to anyone. She’ll also decide your remarkable story about ordinary people with an extraordinary idea has become nothing more than another faceless corporate monster, and might even decide your allegedly top-quality product is just overpriced. All because of a poorly executed online order process.

I still want to find some good skin care/shaving stuff for my fellow dog-wrangler. In the meantime, we visited our friendly Mountain Equipment Co-op store and bought ourselves new winter hiking boots for Christmas. Not very romantic, but badly needed, and happy feet are a good thing. I also bought a pair of Smartwool socks for my finicky feet. Check out their Woolology page (maybe not good for dialup connections) and play with the balls of wool.

A good cure for snarkiness is finding a company that’s committed to delighting their customers. But I won’t try to order online. At least, not today.

Part of it was my age. I was suffering from a typical case of post-adolescent narcissism. Part of it was lack of training. There aren’t many retail jobs that provide the kind of training that gives you a sense of pride or professionalism. The crap wages didn’t help much, either.

I don’t recall how I landed there, but around the time I started university I got a part-time job at Mark’s Work Wearhouse. That was back in the day when they mostly sold serious work wear, before they went upscale and focused more on fashion. I somehow ended up as product manager for boots and shoes. I was about to become the resident expert on work boots, which also meant I was responsible for ordering thousands of dollars of inventory. I got some basic product information from another staff member and one of the regional managers, and I was off to the races.

I didn’t feel like a generic sales clerk anymore.

Picture, if you will, a 115 pound gal who’s just a little over five feet tall selling a pair of Kaufman Kingtreads to a guy with size 15 feet. Size 15 work boots were hard to find in those days, and Kaufman (based in Kitchener, Ontario, they went into receivership in 2000, after 93 years in business) was one of the only manufacturers who made them. Guys with big feet were glad I knew that.

You might wonder how it was that tough-guy tradesmen took me seriously as a seller of work boots. It was actually remarkably easy. I proved to them I knew what I was doing. I knew how the boots were made, and what kind of boot was suitable for what kind of job.

During my time selling work boots, I learned an unexpected lesson I will be grateful for forever.

Since product knowledge would only take me so far, I had to learn from my customers. I asked them about their jobs to find out more about their footwear needs. I quickly discovered they were proud of their work and happy to tell me about it.

The more I talked to my customers, the more I learned. Like plumbers and electricians wear out the toes of their boots, because they have to spend so much time on their knees (they wear out the knees of their work pants, too—one guy said his wife sewed padded patches on his). Guys on paving crews told me they wanted insulated boots to protect their feet from the hot asphalt, but the heat also wrecked the insulation.

By showing genuine interest in my customers and treating them with respect, I got respect right back. I understood the demands of their jobs, shared whatever tips I learned, and did my best to sell them the boots that got them the best performance and the best value for their hard-earned money. Our store ranked second in the region in boot sales, and yes, I was mighty proud of it.

That was my turnaround time. I’ve never looked at a customer the same way since.

It’s amazing how easy it is to sell to people when you see them as people first. Sure, there are idiots out there, but sometimes someone just got dumped, or they have a pounding headache, or they missed lunch and their blood sugar’s gone in the ditch. (Don’t come near me when I’m hungry. Seriously.) Life is messy for all of us on occasion.

Sometimes we get so wrapped up in the idea of being in business, we forget what it’s really about. When we bring it back to a human level, it shifts our perspective. It makes interacting with customers easier, because the whole process is less artificial. It becomes a conversation.

How do you connect with your people? And what kind of boots do you wear?