I had a strange memory return today.
On twitter (you know that micro-blogging thing where everyone talks at once?), a writer friend I follow, @copylicious, was having a bad day.
You see, the Bay Bridge from San Francisco to Oakland was closed. So she couldn't get home.
And the only word was that they would be sending "updates on when people might get the next update."
And, on top of it, it was her birthday!
And she had not one, but four writing deadlines staring her in the face.
So you see, she really was having a bad day, when she blurted (tweeted):
"Why don't they allow puppets in high-level meetings?"
Well, that started people talking.
"Yeah, why don't they allow puppets, anyway?" said @wildheartqueen.
"Did somebody say a meeting with puppets?" said @starshyne, "Sign me up!"
And so it started. Our puppet stories. Now, with twitter names like @copylicious, @wildheartqueen, @starshyne, and @CatsEyeWriter (that's me), you'd kind of expect it, right?
But wait. Why don't they allow puppets in high-level meetings?
My puppet story was begging to be told. So I told it. On twitter. The condensed story, that is.
Here's the slightly longer version:
Several years ago I was manager of writing resources for an international nonprofit that had 5,000+ life-saving relief and development projects in 126 countries around the world. Projects to bring clean water to villages. Health care. Agricultural tools. Schools and classrooms.
I worked from the headquarters in L.A.
It was a high-stress job. Tense deadlines. 14-hour days. I traveled to West Africa to film a documentary and got malaria. Survived 130-degree days and a sandstorm in a village chief's hut in the Sahara Desert.
When I returned, I was a changed person. And exhausted. And really needing a "normal" job again.
Of course, I was afraid to tell my boss, especially after having just returned from this month-long trip, which was my class in International Development 101.
Then I remembered. Bob and I had just been to a silly small-town carnival, where he won an adorable purple furry hand puppet for tossing a ring that landed on milk bottle lid. You know that carnival game. The one it's almost impossible to win? Oh, wait. Every game at a carnival is impossible to win.
We named him Pépe.
I didn't have the nerve to quit my job just like that. But I had a feeling I could get Pépe to do it for me.
We went to a restaurant by the Santa Anita racetrack called The Brown Derby. Just the three of us. Me, my boss Dori and Pépe, who I kept in my purse through lunch. After the meal, when the coffee had arrived, I pulled him out and he managed to say, in a high-pitched, squeaky voice, "I'm so sorry but I think it's time to leave this job."
Moment of silence. Okay, huge moment of silence.
Then Dori burst out laughing.
Pépe had broken the tension so we could have a conversation. I talked about how honored I was to have been selected from more than 200 applicants for the job. How much I had learned about myself and the world. How I would love to stay involved as a consultant (which ended up happening).
We connected, even though I had just quit my job.
How social media connects
us
Yesterday on twitter, I found a way to connect. Over puppets. Again.
I found like-minded people who also loved puppets and weren't afraid to use them. Other weird people. Like me.
Plus, I recently connected with another twitter friend. The uber-talented and very cool @sparkyfirepants. He's a designer and illustrator who lives in the mountains of Oregon and raises alpacas.
I wrote an article for Biznik called FAQ Page Lessons from the Encyclopedia Man. It was all about overcoming objections in the Q & As on your website's FAQ page, so you can move prospects farther along the path to purchase.
@sparkyfirepants read the article and sent this message (publicly) to me on twitter:
@CatsEyeWriter: Enjoying your article. One of my favorite words is "davenport."
I had started my article with a scene from my childhood, where the door-to-door salesman was trying his best to sell my mom a new set of Encyclopedia Britannicas. I used the word "davenport" because that's what we called our couch.
I explained that to @sparkyfirepants (Don't you just love his name?).
He tweeted back:
@CatsEyeWriter: No, really, I love it. I have a story to tell you when we meet sometime. A funny davenport story.
Another connection.
Now, mind you, I've known Sparky Firepants (real name, David Billings) for almost two years, but we've never met in person.
But I feel like I know him. We can talk about business, family and weird words like "davenport." How cool is that?
So much is written today about being authentic. Don't hide your uniqueness. Don't be afraid to show the real you.
But if the real you is someone who likes to make puppets talk, is that okay?
If you like to form bonds and connections with people by making them laugh, is that okay?
Once we started talking about puppets on Twitter, there was a separation. The people who definitely believe in puppets and story and magic. And the people who think it's a little weird.
We puppet people actually attracted each other.
What do you think? Do you attract people like you—on your blog, on Twitter, on LinkedIn? And if so, is that a good thing or a bad thing?
How has social media connected you with others? Do you sometimes connect over things that have nothing to do with business.
Would love to hear your thoughts in the comments section.





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