Understanding this one thing about communication makes you far better
We communicate to convey meaning.
Wait. No. I said that wrong.
We communicate to create meaning.
As a communicator, I can't say I "convey" meaning, because quite literally, I convey words. My words then act as little carpenters who arrive at your door. They step out of their trucks, chug the last of their morning coffees and hike up their tool belts as they knock. ("Oh! Jay's words are here!") Then my little carpenters (word-workers?) get to work, measuring and sawing and hammering and drilling, all to construct images in your mind. That's the work of words, really. They create images in the minds of the audience. It's those images that then lead to meaning.
But only after my words create a few images does the real magic begin. In this construction project, the word-workers aren't the only participants. In fact, they're not even the most important contributors. That job belongs to the most important party involved in effective communication and storytelling:
You.
Unlike my useless bum when real carpenters arrive to my real home, when my words arrive to your brain, you don't just sit there watching. You leap off the couch and start to build things yourself. Informed and inspired by the initial images the word-workers created, you start to build your own. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Far more vivid and real than anything my busy little carpenters could create, despite their best efforts and (I think?) how effective my words are. YOU are ten times as effective as creating images in your own head than I'll ever be. That's because you draw on your entire life experience as inspiration to create more (and more vivid) images than my team ever could.
THAT is why anything I can say to you might stick.
THAT is how meaning happens.
Meaning is created.
I can inspire it. I can spark that process to begin, sure. But the meaning I hope you embrace by reading or watching or listening is mostly created by you. I send over my best word-workers, but you do the majority of the work.
For instance, imagine I said to you, "I took a day off the other day and went to the aquarium with my daughter, where we saw a penguin."
I've just planted a few images in your head already, but you fleshed out an entire world full of vivid pictures and emotions, maybe even some of the five senses I didn't think to involve in that sentence. Maybe you imagine what it looks or feels like to take a day off: emailing clients, setting an auto-responder, stressing out the morning of the vacation ("shouldn't I be working?"). Maybe you picture the front of an aquarium you've seen or combine several such buildings into one. (Is it more concrete or glass? Something else?) Is the "day" I took off bright and sunny? Are there clouds? And what kind of penguin do you picture? And what do you imagine and feel upon hearing a dad is spending a special day with his little girl? And what are the traits of this little girl you imagine? That's all built from the raw materials of your own life and imagination.
This goes on and on until the one sentence I said to you containing a handful of details transforms into an entire world full of infinite images and emotions—the vast majority of which you created, not me.
I convey words. The words create a few images in your mind. But you then create an entire world. It’s in that world, you find meaning. I got you started, and if I’m good at my job, I know the meaning I want to inspire you to construct, but make no mistake, you do most of the world-building. The more actively involved you become as a creator in your head, the more effective I've become as a communicator.
Meaning is created, not conveyed.
It's created by the audience.
Understanding this simple fact can transform how we communicate and therefore our ability to be more effective in our work. If you want to be more effective, you need to create better images in the minds of others. Here, "better" means one very important thing:
More specific.
The problem isn't that your words don't create images in their minds. The problem is your images aren’t specific enough. Mostly, they’re generic.
To become a stronger speaker, writer, or communicator in general, you need to get more specific first. Unfortunately, most professionals communicate in clip art:
"It can be so hard to deal with a boss who won't take feedback."
"I have this grocery store on my street..."
"Marketers today are grappling with the increasing rate of change."
That's clip art. You hear "boss" and "store" and "marketer," and you get the most generic image in your mind of what those look and feel like. The rough outline of a "boss" sits there, floating in a void, because that kind of communication is void of detail.
If I send over that kind of word-worker, it’s like I'm sending over the guy every general contractor has learned not to hire for the next job. He rolls sideways out of his truck, schleps to your front door looking bored already, shirt stained with ketchup from last night's microwave dinner. He raps on your door, flicks a booger onto your rose bush, then stammers when you open, "Uhhhh I'm here to share some basic advice nobody really cares about but for some reason my boss thinks you want?"
If I send over THAT guy? I'm praying for a miracle that his shoddy work actually works, or else I'm hoping you have SUCH an active and vivid imagination and SO much focused mental energy to spend that you see my word-worker's flimsy wooden “boss” and transform that clip art into a vivid world.
But the odds are against me.
When the clip art approach fails to resonate, some communicators evolve one positive step. Instead of clip art, they communicate in stock photography.
This is a bit better, I suppose, but who hasn't cringed at these overly-staged and awkward images? You know the sort: two people shaking hands in a board room, smiles stretching their unnaturally smooth skin to the breaking point, bright blue sky shining behind them through the all-glass corporate building they occupy.
That's stock photography (both what I'm describing and also how I just described it).
If clip art is contextless and generic, stock photography adds just enough detail and texture to the image to place it into a concrete context. It's not floating in a void. It’s more vivid. But it's still generic. Rather than "boss," I could say:
I once had this terrible boss named Larry. Nobody liked him, and he never listened to our feedback on anything. He was also obsessed with his looks and wore overly formal clothes to work each day.
That's a bit better. My word-workers have constructed a stronger image in your head, and maybe you've joined in the creation process to erect even more details, inspired by a better collection I've created for you.
But we can get better still. We aren’t done evolving as communicators.
Next, I can make the words even more specific, and in doing so, create what I call “indelible images.” I think great communicators create in your mind images you’ll never forget. They are indelible, or “making marks that can’t be removed.”
To evolve beyond stock photography to create indelible imagery requires us to isolate and/or exaggerate an important detail or two when we communicate. That detail might be a description of the character or setting, or maybe something about the forward action or tension of the story, or maybe a combination of those four things: character, setting, action, tension. We must remember that all communication is really theater of the mind, and the best storytellers understand precisely when to break into song, impress you with some gorgeous set design, set the mood through lighting, or dramatically close the curtains.
Instead of "boss" or "my bad boss Larry who obsessed over his own looks," I might say this:
A few years ago, I had this terrible boss. Larry. Ugh. Nobody liked Larry. His worst trait was that he wouldn't listen to anyone around him about anything. Larry was also obsessed with his looks. He'd saunter into work wearing vests and ties, like he was going to a Mumford-inspired wedding instead of our office on a Wednesday. He'd always brush his mustache in view of others too, using anything he could find as a mirror (though least often of all, an actual mirror). But what he never realized (and we relished in never telling him) was the left side of his mustache was always much lower than the right side. One day, good old Lopsided Larry walked into my office...
Instead of describing a universal term or avatar, I created a singular character. Instead of communicating about my boss in general, I made it personal. The thing is, the more singular and personal we get, the deeper we resonate. There's an old adage in storytelling that sums this up perfectly:
"In the specific, we find the universal."
It's a paradox. If you want to connect deeper externally, you have to turn deeper internally.
The more specific you get, the more your words become universally applicable. Describing Lopsided Larry in greater detail meant you both pictured him more clearly AND surrounded the description with way more vivid details about the office, his clothing, his mustache, his personality, his voice AND you probably even thought about people like him you’ve met in your own work or life. You’ve fleshed out the entire world around Larry, instantly, drawing from and harkening back to your own life experiences. You are fully enrolled. You’re a co-director of this theater of your own mind.
Vivid descriptions and specific stories have this amazing way of both creating indelible images and equipping the audience to do the same, but much more quickly and effectively in their own minds. In my Lopsided Larry example, my little word-workers go beyond building flimsy wooden figures labeled "boss." Instead, they became directors of the show playing out in your mind, inspiring you to stand alongside them and co-direct your own details and scenes too. That’s powerful, but that doesn’t happen until my word-workers start to carve Larry's lopsided mustache, then carefully add some texture to the hair, then paint it deep chestnut.
I guess what I’m saying is this:
It’s a trick.
All of this.
Storytelling. Communication. Creativity deployed to make you think or feel a certain way.
Words.
Words are a trick. An illusion. We believe the words we receive are what creates meaning, when really, it’s what comes next. The issue with how most professionals communicate is nothing comes next. What you see is what you get. What you get is generic, flat, forgettable. But communication is this wonderful, terrible sorcery capable of prompting other people to concoct entire worlds within their minds using just a few sentences we provide. Again: sorcery. Ignore it at your peril.
If you want your story to stick and your message to become their mantra, if you want to resonate more deeply and connect more universally, you have to get more specific.
Stop communicating in clip art.