Writing in organisations

I recently had two experiences on consecutive days that left very different impressions on me. The first was a sparkling conversation with a colleague (John Higgins) over tea in a Brighton café. During and after our talk, I kept glimpsing possibilities for future collaboration and conversation. And we parted having agreed that we would organise an informal ‘café-style’ gathering in Brighton in the summer, focused on ‘speaking truth to power’ (John’s research subject). 

The second experience was a seminar for first-year undergraduates that I ran in the same week (as a ‘guest lecturer’) – on essay writing.  It went pretty smoothly as far as I could tell, but I couldn’t help noticing that it didn’t leave me buzzing like the café conversation just described. And it wasn’t just the bizarre setting:  a cramped square room at the university, full of long grey tables covered by computers (known appropriately as ‘the workstation room’). Several other factors contributed to a mild sense of dissatisfaction. To give you a few clues, I’ll describe briefly what happened.

Before the seminar I had spent considerable time and thought on preparation; not so much what I was going to tell the students (I have plenty to say about writing), but what activities I could offer them and which questions might stimulate their thinking.

At the appointed time for the seminar (11am), only one student was in the room; the others arrived in dribs and drabs. So I waited about 15 minutes before beginning, by which time about a dozen had turned up (out of some 20 on the course).

I started by offering them a wide view of writing, quoting one of my favourite authors on the subject (Verlyn Klinkenborg): "Talking is natural, writing is not". As I spoke, I noticed that some of the students looked alert, others gave the impression they hadn’t slept enough. And when I posed questions, some spoke up while others remained quiet. But overall I think the session succeeded in engaging most of them. As I walked back to my bike afterwards, I noticed that, although I was reasonably pleased with how it had gone, I wasn’t feeling especially inspired or energised by the experience. 

The following day I went to my desk in the morning, as usual, and wrote freely about these two experiences, using just pen and paper, without pausing to correct anything. Later I typed up my written reflections, editing as I went along; and today I reshaped and shortened them for inclusion here. ​

I could have just thought about these two human encounters, or discussed them with someone else, but the exercise of reflective writing (and rewriting) clarified and developed my thinking. It reaffirmed to me that, given a choice, I will nearly always choose an informal conversation with one of my peers over the alternative of standing in front of a class.

As well as showing me which activity generates the most energy in me, my reflections helped me work out what I might do differently in future, and even what really matters to me in life.  If I choose to continue teaching, I will try to make it as much as possible like a café conversation.

There is of course nothing new about reflecting on experience. 16th century essayist Michel de Montaigne described how his own mind’s “principal and most difficult study is the study of itself”. Later he expanded:  

“For anyone who knows how to probe himself and to do so vigorously, reflection [méditer in the French version] is a mighty endeavour and a full one… The greatest of souls make [it] their vocation, ‘quibus vivere est cogitare’ [“For them, to think is to live”: Cicero]; there is nothing we can do longer than think, no activity to which we can devote ourselves more regularly nor more easily.”

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Related reading

"Several short sentences about writing", by Verlyn Klinkeborg (2013) 

“On three kinds of social intercourse” (“De trois commerces”), essay by Michel de Montaigne ​(1533-1592)

Reading time 2-3 minutes

In October, I was lucky enough to go to Taiwan, a place I had never visited before, for a trip that was part work, part fun. My highlights:  conversations in teahouses, a walk in the hills outside Taipei (see above), bathing in hot pools, and being part of a performance in a modern museum in the city of Taichung. 

On one particular day, I also ran a seminar at the University of Tapei on the subject of “Writing Experience” (deliberately ambiguous, since it could mean either “the experience of writing” or “writing about experience”, or both).

The people I was speaking to were interested in bringing their own experience into their writing.  At one point, I invited them to spend five minutes writing freely about some themes I had been talking about (see photo below).

Over the years, I have benefited from many courses in communication skills (I have even run some myself). They have all been useful, but there are limits to what training can achieve. 

First, the very existence of such courses may encourage people to think that communication is all about techniques, and that there are experts out there who can tell or show us how to do it better.

Second, in practice the picture is always much wider than the individual’s skills. People communicate in a specific situation and there is always a history to it. So general principles and role playing may be inadequate to bring about the changes desired.

And third, if a course is focused on just one type of communication (e.g. either face-to-face or written), it may fail to address some of the most interesting dilemmas we face, such as the choices we are forced to make between email, telephone and face-to-face contact.

For some time, I have felt increasingly drawn to other sources of insight and illumination, especially:  (1) paying attention, in the moment,  to my own experience of communication; (2) reflective writing; and (3) using stories and literature to gain a deeper understanding of human relating. These three methods, if one can call them that, are well suited to exploring the complexities and subtleties of human relating. (I prefer the term ‘human relating’ to 'communication', as the ‘-ing’ suggests something that is in movement rather than a static ‘thing’.)

So, what would I suggest to a young professional eager to get better at communication, whether or not it  is mediated by smartphones and other gadgets? For a start, I do think it’s worth taking every interesting training opportunity offered by your employer, whether it’s about public speaking, business writing, coaching or something else.

There are also some more unusual approaches to developing better conversational skills.  ‘Nonviolent Communication’, ‘SAVI’ and Time To Think™ immediately spring to mind. I’ve recently looked into all three and have found each one useful, up to a point. In particular, one of the great things about Time To Think™ (even though I’m not so keen on the trademark) is that it involves taking turns to (i) think aloud and (ii) listen. This not only allows you to practise your listening skills but also encourages you to work out what you think, without interruption.

If you want to go beyond courses, here’s a bit more about the methods I mentioned earlier:

1. The art of noticing. Practise consciously paying attention to your everyday experience of human relating.  Do you feel at ease in the midst of a conversation? Or is something troubling you that you don’t feel able to mention? Could you find a way of bringing it up?  That might just shift something between you and the person you are talking to (as long as you do it thoughtfully – e.g. describing your own experience rather than blaming or complaining).

2. The wisdom of fiction. If you sense that a novel or film has depths in it that you would like to explore further, take a closer look. I favour reading/watching it again and then using reflective writing to explore what struck me. Or simply cast you mind back to a particular scene or memorable moment and associate freely in your mind - what was going on between the lines, do you recall a similar experience from your own life?

​3. If you like writing, take pen and paper and put down your thoughts and musings. No need to share these with anybody else; just write freely for yourself. You might be amazed at what emerges.


Related reading

“Beyond communication skills” by Alison Donaldson & Michael MacMahon. Published in e-Organisations & People, Summer 2016, Vol. 23, No. 2. Download PDF.

Trust between humans always has both history and context. Even when we first meet somebody, context plays a part. We may already have heard something about them, or we may be influenced by their status or job title – e.g. we probably respond differently to a nurse, a businessman, a teacher or a homeless person. So in my view, if we want to understand how trust works, abstract definitions have limited value. Perhaps what St Augustin said about time could also be said about trust:

“What then is time? If no one asks me, I know what it is. If I wish to explain it to him who asks, I do not know.”

If we can’t define trust satisfactorily, can we at least begin to understand how it develops between people – and between people and institutions – over time? That is what Rob Warwick and I explored recently with a group in Brighton, by using stories, group conversations and writing to stimulate thinking.

Overall, the day prompted me to reflect on how human relationships, and trust in particular, ebb and flow. If you cast your mind back to how one of your relationships has developed over time, you may recall some striking or memorable moments along the way. Perhaps something happened to unsettle or even destroy the trust between you. Maybe you managed to rebuild it. Maybe you didn’t.

Not surprisingly, I noticed just this kind of ebb and flow during the workshop. For example, I felt warmer towards people who smiled or responded constructively to something I said. In contrast, when someone spoke in a complaining tone (as if they were a consumer who had bought a faulty product), I noticed my trust in that person sag.

At the end of the day, I came away wondering again whether it isn’t a bit strange to focus solely on this “thing” called trust, when trust is only one of several aspects of human relating. What about fear, sadness, irritation, enthusiasm, love, disappointment, exclusion, rivalry or anger? Surely these all deserve our attention.

Talking of anger, I recall how an old friend once criticised me angrily at the breakfast table (there were five of us in the room at the time). His words felt pretty much out of the blue. The memory of that exchange has lingered in my mind ever since. I would still trust him in most things, but in that moment something precious was lost, and I have gone back to it in my memory many times. 

One person at the Brighton workshop wondered whether trusting someone could be understood as “anticipating that they won’t do harm to us”. I suspect we just need to feel safe enough with other people to be able to “go on together”. 

Note: The event was the AMED writers' annual workshop in Brighton on 20 May 2016: Writing, Conversation and Trust: a day of exploration by the seaside. The original research was funded by Roffey Park.

Related reading
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​Alison Donaldson & Rob Warwick: The emergence of trusting relationships: Stories and Reflections. Val Hammond Research Paper for Roffey Park, 2016. Available free as PDF.

Alison Donaldson & Rob Warwick: Trust and the emotional bank account: using stories to prompt learning. Strategic Briefing for Croner Publications, 2016. Available free online.

Talking is natural. Writing is not. (Verlyn Klinkenborg)
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As soon as I started preparing a seminar on writing for a group of undergraduates studying music and sound, I noticed that I almost knew too much about my subject: in recent years I have become intrigued not just by writing itself but by the whole context around it. For example: the interplay between writing and conversation; the influence of communication technologies on human society; and the uses of narrative writing in education and at work. As some of my readers know, I work as a writing coach and I even focused my thesis on how people use writing in organisations...

The students are in their first year at university and have an essay deadline looming, and we will only have two hours together, so I wanted to come up with a seminar that is pitched at the right level and includes plenty of useful learning activities. On this occasion, therefore, I wanted to set aside my specialised interests and focus on some of the “essentials” of essay writing.

The next thing I noticed was that my preparation process was a long and winding one:  I thought about the seminar on walks, in the shower and while sitting on trains; I had conversations about it; I drew mindmaps; I looked at relevant documents; I made a provisional plan; I let the ideas simmer overnight; I went back over the plan; and then I had the idea of writing a blog post about it. The whole exercise left me wondering whether I am one of those people who, in the words of French essayist Michel de Montaigne, feel compelled to go in for “tedious and elaborate meditation” when preparing a talk or sermon!

Eventually, thank goodness, I was ready to jettison less relevant stuff and settle on what I think are the most essential skills needed to write good essays:

(1) Organising one’s thinking – I want to help the students work out how to structure their argument, given that their 2000-word essay is supposed to feature one case study (e.g. a musical work) and they have been told to: (i) describe the work; (ii) analyse the medium; (iii) contextualise the work; and (iv) interpret it.

(2) Writing good sentences – for less experienced writers, this includes stripping out every unnecessary word, using active verbs, breaking down long, unwieldy sentences into shorter ones, and revising drafts meticulously.

(3) Liberating one’s creative thinking – with the help of activities such as conversation (e.g. talking to a fellow student) and “freewriting” (taking pen and paper and spending a few minutes handwriting whatever comes to mind on a particular subject without stopping or erasing anything).

The first two skills (structure and sentence-writing) may seem obvious ones to learn, but I think the third one is often underrated.

After I had settled on these three, I started to wonder what my overarching idea might be, if indeed there is one. Perhaps it is simply that essay writing takes time and effort – you can’t just dash it off at the last minute. Indeed, a good essay usually requires revisiting the draft again and again (some call this “iterative” writing). "All writing is revision, claims Verlyn Klinkenborg in his exquisite book, Several Short Sentences About Writing:

A writer may write painstakingly,
Assembling the work slowly, like a mosaic,
Fitting and refitting sentences and paragraphs over the years.
And yet to the reader the writing may seem to flow.
(Verlyn Klinkenborg)

(I’ll leave you guessing how many times I revised this blog post before plucking up courage to press “Publish”.)

If this all sounds like too much hard work, it is – many people find writing arduous and painful. I suspect this is partly because human beings are first and foremost talking animals – as a species, we started to speak many, many thousands of years before we invented writing. Without writing, our oral ancestors were limited to talking to each other and telling stories from memory. They certainly couldn’t “look things up” in books or on the internet and they had no way of developing complex, abstract arguments.

I have noticed that being good at writing is a great advantage in life. Yes, it’s a bit of a slog, but it can also be satisfying and mind-expanding... maybe precisely because it involves such a rich mix of analytical and creative thinking.

Postscript
It was great fun working with the students last week. One noticed that having a conversation with somebody about their essay subject made them feel enthusiastic about it. And as for the freewriting, they didn't seem to want to stop, even though one student said he didn't like his own handwriting. 

An acknowledgement
Although I had tried out freewriting (AKA automatic writing) myself some time ago, it was Gilly Smith who helped me see its true value by introducing me to "dreamwriting".

Related reading
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Michel de Montaigne: Essays, Book 1 Ch X, Of Quick or Slow Speech (1580).

George Orwell: Politics and the English Language (1946). 

Verlyn Klinkenborg: Several Short Sentences About Writing (2012).

Conversation… we all do it. At best, it can be lively and creative and at worst infuriating or just dull. Last week I spent two days with a group exploring one approach to understanding how conversations work and what we can do to shift the frustrating patterns that sometimes develop.

The occasion was a workshop in London run by Rowena Davis, a friend and consultant who is very perceptive and skilled at working with people. The method she introduced us to was “SAVI”, which stands for System for Analysing Verbal Interaction. It involves identifying certain common “behaviours”, recognising frustrating or repetitive patterns, and then trying to shift them. The aim is to have more productive and satisfying conversations, whether at work, at home, with friends or anywhere else. The method can also be applied to “email conversations”, although without being able to hear the other person’s tone of voice this can be much harder to do.

Here’s just one example of a common pattern of conversation:  Person A complains and complains about something; B offers suggestions and solutions but A just continues complaining. The process repeats in a kind of loop and a “stuck” pattern has established itself.

To get out of this loop, B could try out one of many possible new responses – and choosing the most promising one is in itself as much an art as a science. For example, B could “mirror” A’s feelings by saying something like “You seem to be sad/angry/frustrated about this” and see whether that helps. Or they could express what kind of feelings they themselves experienced while they were listening to A moan. And/or they could try summarising or paraphrasing what A said to show they had listened and understood. Or they could just offer to listen attentively for a set time period, such as five or ten minutes, after which A and B might both be ready to turn their attention to a different topic. Whichever option is chosen, B cannot be certain what A’s next response will be. But it’s worth a try.

For me, the workshop highlighted how often we just react to each other. For example, when one person speaks in an angry tone, the other may respond fiercely or self-righteously and the conversation can go downhill from there. Or people can get locked into a pattern with each discounting the other’s opinion (“Yes, but” is a common response) and then going on to state their own position again, and again. Provided we notice patterns like this in the moment, we may be able to buy ourselves time by trying something different or responding in a new way.

Since the workshop, some of my own conversations have started to become noticeably more satisfying and constructive. And some need further work! For example, the other day I was in the passenger seat of a car when I noticed we seemed to be accelerating towards a young woman on a bike on a mini-roundabout just ahead of us. My dialogue with the driver went roughly like this:

Me (alarmed, in a raised voice): “Careful!”

Driver (crossly): “I saw her!”

Me (crossly):  “I was just trying to warn you. If you’d hit her, you would have killed her.”

Driver (crossly): “No I wouldn’t. Do you think I wanted to kill her?”

Me (crossly): “That’s a ridiculous question.”

By now, I felt so angry I could hardly hold myself back from swearing at the driver. But, thinking about the workshop, I managed to keep my mouth shut, still seething, while I looked for pen and paper so I could record the exchange and think about how else I could have responded. After I put down my pen, I decided to explain what I was doing, and we went on to talk relatively calmly about our little spat. We agreed it would have been almost impossible to avoid the initial exchange (“Careful!” and “I saw her!”). Those first reflexes felt uncontrollable in the moment. But after that, instead of continuing to fight back, perhaps I could have said “I’m sorry I shouted but I was really frightened.” There is no guarantee, but maybe this would have helped.

Understanding how verbal exchanges like these work is useful for anyone interested in complexity and emergence. "Complexity thinking" is very much about how change emerges from human interaction. We all know that conversations are capable of giving rise to conflict, mistrust and mutual blaming, but they can also bring about learning, innovation, understanding and trust.

So let’s do all we can to increase our understanding of conversation and dialogue. But let’s also remind ourselves that we can’t change other people – we can only try out new responses ourselves. 

Related reading

• If you want to find out more about SAVI, go to www.savicommunications.com/index.html. If I had only seen the SAVI website, I might not have signed up for the workshop. What convinced me to do so was my trust in Rowena and my conviction that conversational (dialogical) skills are vital for human cooperation and survival. So don’t be put off by the trademarking or the (for my taste) over-scientific language – it is sprinkled with words like “systematic”, “objective analysis” and “coding” (or by the reference to 1940s Information Theory, which in my view has serious limitations when applied to human beings… ).
• If you’re interested in doing a SAVI workshop and willing to travel, the next one is in Bucharest 17-19 March 2016 –  www.comunicareesentiala.ro/savi2/
• For a different approach, see “Nonviolent communication” by Marshall B Rosenberg, and www.cnvc.org/
• For a complexity perspective on conversation, see Patricia Shaw's book “Changing conversations”. Also “Learning to talk to one another – politics and practical judgement” (blog post by Chris Mowles, University of Herts).
• For more academic “dialogical” thinking, see “Conversational realities revisited” by John Shotter, or just visit www.johnshotter.com/

Postscript

SAVI looks mainly at what we perceive directly in conversation, especially words and tone. It doesn’t delve beneath the surface in the way that, say, psychoanalysis would. But I think that is also its strength. It takes appearance seriously and is not over-theoretical.

After the Christmas break, I had a week without any official appointments and found myself sitting in my home office feeling slightly detached from the world. What helped me to feel reconnected most of all, I noticed, was two good conversations. But what made them "good"?

The first one was with an old friend who is a very creative thinker and who has spent much of his life in business. We sat in one of Hove’s many cafés bouncing ideas back and forth. Two hours zipped by and, at the end, I felt much greater clarity about what I wanted to explore next in my writing. 

When I reflect on what made this conversation so satisfying, I think first that we both felt able to express what was troubling us at the time – e.g.  the challenge of structuring our days when working from home. But we didn’t dwell on that problem. Instead, we quickly switched our attention to what was beginning to feel possible and exciting in our working lives. We also both seemed willing to listen closely and to enter imaginatively into one another’s worlds. And there was an openness in our talk – we both expressed strong ideas but were receptive to different ways of thinking.

My second encounter took the form of a skype call with a wise friend who is always open to conversation and is very generous with his thinking (see www.johnshotter.com). Among other things, John and I discussed what hinders dialogue. Often, we agreed, it is overuse of abstract concepts. In the world of work, words like "impact", "culture" or "management" can easily close down further exploration, while in the wider world it might be "freedom", "equality" or even "migrant". If we use such concepts without saying what they mean to us personally, or without giving examples or relating stories from our own experience, we risk either ending up in conflict, or just seeming to agree with each other.

Much has been written about dialogue but on a practical level I think we all recognise a good conversation when we see it. For example, we know when people are listening attentively; we can tell when they are exploring as they talk, rather than offering finished thoughts; and we can judge when they are talking from within a real experience rather than generalising in an aloof way.

To my mind, it's well worth giving the quality of conversation close attention, and seeking out conversations that uplift us.

Related reading
John Shotter: "Against 'concepts' and 'definitions' –available here.

John Shotter: "Getting it: withness-thinking and the dialogical in practice" (Hampton Press, 2011).

Franklin also devoted much of his spare time to writing exercises, in order to teach himself “Method in the Arrangement of Thoughts”. He observed: “Prose Writing has been of great Use to me in the Course of my Life, and was a principal Means of my Advancement.”
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As I read these words, I found myself wondering whether people today recognise the benefits of “learning a little to scribble”, as Franklin put it. For that matter, do those benefits still hold in today’s world of mobile communication, tablets and social media? Personally I think the answer is a resounding “yes”. And certainly when I reflect back on my own life, I can see how being able to write reasonably well helped me acquire academic degrees, secure good jobs, earn the respect of colleagues, and finally earn my living through the written word… not to forget the satisfaction of the craft itself and the deep learning that it has generated for me.

As well as practising his writing, Franklin made a point of studying the art of conversation. For instance, as a young man he read about the Socratic Method. This persuaded him to drop the habit of “abrupt Contradiction” and adopt instead the attitude of “humble Enquirer and Doubter”, and eventually he developed a lasting habit of expressing himself in terms of “modest Diffidence”. This meant, when making a proposal that might be disputed, he would refrain from using words such as “certainly” and “undoubtedly”. I loved his explanation: “…a positive dogmatical Manner in advancing your Sentiments, may provoke Contradiction & prevent a candid Attention.”

Looking back on his life, Franklin felt his diffident habit had been of great advantage to him, enabling him to succeed in promoting a wide range of causes. And these included many things that we now take for granted, like a police force, a fire service and a public library*. That was all in the colony of Pennsylvania, but ultimately of course he became one of the Founding Fathers of the United States of America.

Further reading

Benjamin Franklin’s “Autobiography and Other Writings” -- highly recommended for anybody who wants a real flavour of 18th century life and food for thought on what the phrase "a good life" could mean.

The same volume includes Franklin’s delightful “Remarks Concerning the Savages of North America”, which reveals the author's appreciation of “Indian” customs. He tells a marvellous story of how, in 1744, Indians in the colony of Virginia politely declined the offer of sending some of their sons to a college. They even made a counter-offer, saying:  “…if the Gentlemen of Virginia will send us a dozen of their Sons, we will take great Care of their Education, instruct them in all we know, and make Men of them.” 

* I borrowed Franklin’s Autobiography from my local library, which sadly can no longer be taken for granted.

​Recently I visited an amazing project in Glasgow that is helping people affected by cancer get support for any worries they have, including physical problems but also emotional, financial and practical ones. It's called 'Improving the Cancer Journey' (ICJ). Afterwards I reflected on what a key role stories, conversation and writing play in the project.

Stories that move and convince

​When I sat down with Sandra McDermott, the head of the service, she started by telling me the experience that originally moved her to throw herself into it. She had seen a woman who was dying of cancer and who was due any moment to leave hospital to stay with her mother, as her own flat was damp. Within a couple of weeks, drawing on her own knowledge of local services, Sandra was able to arrange more suitable accommodation for the woman and her four children. When the end came, the woman died with her family around her in a warm and comfortable flat. Sandra also helped her make guardianship arrangements, so her children would be well looked after in future. 

Listening to this story, I could see just how powerfully it demonstrated the need for the service. But Sandra also gave some convincing figures – the sheer numbers of people affected by cancer in a city the size of Glasgow, the billions spent on cancer treatment in the UK, especially in deprived areas, and the relatively modest cost of running a service like Improving the Cancer Journey. It was a good example of how numbers and stories can complement each other.

Sandra was herself clearly moved by the woman’s story and she told me she was nervous of telling it to an audience she was going to speak to in London the next day. She feared she would feel too upset. We agreed that what made it so moving probably had something to do with the sense of the community pulling together and making a difference to somebody in need. (I was glad to hear later that Sandra did manage to tell the woman's story in London.)
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Sandra emphasised that it was luck that she had been there at the right moment for this particular woman. The experience convinced her of the need for a new joined-up service to make sure that others could get similar support.

Conversations that ease worry and point to help

I learned from Sandra and her colleagues how Improving the Cancer Journey works. Every person diagnosed with cancer in the Glasgow area now receives a letter inviting them to get in touch and to have a conversation with a link worker. So far, about 40% have taken up the offer. Family and friends who look after the person with cancer can also get help.

The link worker listens to what the person has to say and invites them to identify their needs and concerns, whether physical, practical, emotional or spiritual (in NHS-speak this is a “Holistic Needs Assessment”).

While in Glasgow, I met one of the link workers. Andy immediately struck me as a warm and open person with extensive local knowledge. I had no doubt whatsoever that he would set people at ease and listen with empathy. And the conversations would not be hurried – he told me they last up to 90 minutes, occasionally more than two hours.

​During the conversation, Andy will make suggestions about which of more than 200 local services might be able to help. This could include things like housing or benefits advice, an exercise programme, or a way to meet other patients to ease feelings of isolation. In other words, the service is very much about helping with “all the other things” that typically trouble people who have been diagnosed with cancer.

One woman said that her biggest fear was that her daughter would not remember her after she had died. The link worker in this case suggested that mother and daughter create some kind of memory box together, which the daughter could keep and look at in years to come. 

Paperwork that helps not hinders the conversation

I also noticed that the team makes good use of paperwork. One example is the simple one-page form providing people with a list of possible concerns. They can simply run down the list, ticking off the ones that apply.

Being sceptical about how paperwork is used, I asked Andy if he felt this checklist was helpful. He said, yes, it helps to get people started. It also makes it easy for him to explore with them which main concerns they want to focus on.

Also, there’s a space at the bottom where people can score their overall level of concern on a scale of 1 to 10 (1 = lowest, 10 = highest). This creates a “stress thermometer”, which gives an idea of how seriously worried they are now, but also becomes useful if they meet the link worker again, when they can provide a new score. The before-and-after comparison provides the team with a simple way of measuring how effective the service is (its 'impact').

At some point, patients are invited to record and share their personal story on a separate card, which simply asks, “Tell us briefly about your cancer experience.” This provides another measure of the service’s impact. It also allows the team to contact the person again and (with permission) use their story in the media to help publicise the service.
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The project has even formed a group of patients who can help improve the service, and these patients have already helped to reword the letter sent to all those diagnosed with cancer.
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All in all I felt that stories, conversations and intelligent uses of paperwork combine to make Improving the Cancer Journey very special. No wonder the team in Glasgow want it to spread all over the UK.

Notes
Improving the Cancer Journey is a partnership between Macmillan Cancer Support, Glasgow City Council, Glasgow Life, NHS Greater Glasgow & Clyde, Cordia Services and Social Work Services.

More information on the project's web pages. ​

“A desk is a dangerous place from which to view the world.” For me, that sentence, written by John Le Carré, instantly conjured up bureaucrats sitting comfortably in their offices deciding the fate of powerless people. But it also evoked other common habits – managers issuing instructions in emails that won’t engage people, researchers writing reports that will never be read properly, or people creating strategic plans that will never be followed.

There are several problems with these habits, not least of which is the implementation challenge. People may not read the written word (and in my experience, many people are reluctant to follow written instructions); those who are meant to implement the plan may be less rational than the author assumes; and by the time the plan has been completed, the environment will probably have changed.

Of course it is often vital to express ideas in writing to help others understand what we are trying to achieve. And the act of writing can help produce greater clarity, at least for the authors. But having produced a document, the risk lies in thinking that the job has been done, when in fact the work of making a difference has only just begun. This is the moment when we need to get away from our desk – or the boardroom table – and talk to people.

So why do some managers continue to spend so much time at their desks? Why do they remain detached from people on the ground? I suspect that for many the thought of a conversation with anybody other than a few trusted colleagues can seem quite scary. I have been there myself. When I worked for McKinsey as a communications specialist (a kind of writing coach and editor) in the late 1980s, one of my challenges was to convince the busy and brainy consultants about the benefits of working with me (it was optional for them). Sometimes I really had to steel myself to walk up to a table of consultants at lunchtime, seat myself down next to them and open a conversation. 

Conversations with strangers may take both confidence and courage. We never know how others will respond or how the conversation will unfold. That uncertainty can be exciting but it can also be uncomfortable. Sometimes it feels so much easier to put down our thoughts in writing and then just send them off. So let’s keep reminding ourselves that the desk is a dangerous place from which to view the world.

Related reading

Zaid Hassan, ‘The Social Labs Revolution: a new approach to solving our most complex challenges’ (which is where I came across the quote from John Le Carré).

Henry Mintzberg, ‘The Rise and Fall of Strategic Planning’ (also quoted by Hassan). See also @Mintzberg141 on Twitter.