Read Online Confessions of a Public Speaker by Scott Berkun - Free Book Online
Authors: Scott Berkun
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the density theory amplifies your energy. We’re
social creatures. If five people—or even dogs, raccoons, or other social
animals—get together, they start to behave in shared ways. They make
decisions together, they move together, and most importantly, they become
a kind of short-term community. With a tightly packed crowd, if I make one
person laugh, nod his head, or smile, the people directly adjacent will
notice and be slightly more prone to do it themselves. TV sitcoms have
laugh tracks for this reason: we respond to what the crowd around us is
doing. Even simply having the woman next to you listening with her full
attention changes the atmosphere for the better, versus sitting next to an
annoying dude checking his email who doesn’t look up once. Thesize of the room or the crowd becomes irrelevant as long as
the people there are together in a tight pack, experiencing and sharing
the same thing at the same time.
There are many similar adjustments a speaker can make to a room.
Turn up the lights if it feels like you’re in a cave. Ask for a wireless
microphone or bring your own if you hate being tied to the lectern. If you
spot someone stuck behind a pole or standing in the back, offer him a seat
near the front that he might not have noticed was empty. Always travel
with a remote for your laptop so you can move to a better spot if the
lectern was placed in some stupid back corner of the stage. Ask the crowd
if they’re too cold or too warm, and then, on the mike, ask the organizers
to do something about it (even if they can’t, you look great by being the
only speaker to give a care about how the audience is feeling). There are
always little things you can do—that don’t require the construction of
your own private lecture theater—to improve how the room feels. When you
have the microphone, it’s your room—do whatever you’d like to enhance the
audience’s experience.
Failing to own your turf is the big mistake that can create a tough
crowd. If I show up five minutes before I start speaking, I have no idea
what the vibe is like. Every audience is different for a thousand reasons,
from what the traffic was like that morning to what sports team won or
lost the night before to what community politics are happening. If I just
show up right before my talk, I can’t sort out how much of it has to do
with me as opposed to general hatred for the world at large. Taking
responsibility for the crowd means showing up to the room early enough to
at least hear the previous speaker. Sometimes you’ll hear a joke or
comment in the previous talk that you can pick up on, or know to avoid,
given that it’s been used before. If the speaker was awesome but only got
cold stares from the crowd, you know something is up that’s larger than
you or the other speaker. But if he does well and gets great energy and
strong applause, yet you go down in flames, you know it’s not the
audience—it’s you.
Speaking in foreign countries makes this all too clear. You have no
idea what a tough crowd is until you’ve spoken in Sweden, Japan, or scores
of other countries where laughing, joking, and yelling out support during
a presentation are cultural taboos. And unless you speak the local
language, you’re being translated, which means the audience doesn’t know
what you said—or what the translator decided you said—until about 10
seconds after you’ve said it. When I spoke in Moscow, live translated just
like at the United Nations, the audience was awesome, but I didn’t know
why they were laughing until the translator explained it through my
earpiece. For long, horrible moments, I was afraid they were laughing at
or heckling me, rather than supporting what I’d said. After speaking
through live translation a few times, presenting to a rowdy crowd is a
breeze if they speak your native language.
If all else fails—you know the audience hates you and your point
social creatures. If five people—or even dogs, raccoons, or other social
animals—get together, they start to behave in shared ways. They make
decisions together, they move together, and most importantly, they become
a kind of short-term community. With a tightly packed crowd, if I make one
person laugh, nod his head, or smile, the people directly adjacent will
notice and be slightly more prone to do it themselves. TV sitcoms have
laugh tracks for this reason: we respond to what the crowd around us is
doing. Even simply having the woman next to you listening with her full
attention changes the atmosphere for the better, versus sitting next to an
annoying dude checking his email who doesn’t look up once. Thesize of the room or the crowd becomes irrelevant as long as
the people there are together in a tight pack, experiencing and sharing
the same thing at the same time.
There are many similar adjustments a speaker can make to a room.
Turn up the lights if it feels like you’re in a cave. Ask for a wireless
microphone or bring your own if you hate being tied to the lectern. If you
spot someone stuck behind a pole or standing in the back, offer him a seat
near the front that he might not have noticed was empty. Always travel
with a remote for your laptop so you can move to a better spot if the
lectern was placed in some stupid back corner of the stage. Ask the crowd
if they’re too cold or too warm, and then, on the mike, ask the organizers
to do something about it (even if they can’t, you look great by being the
only speaker to give a care about how the audience is feeling). There are
always little things you can do—that don’t require the construction of
your own private lecture theater—to improve how the room feels. When you
have the microphone, it’s your room—do whatever you’d like to enhance the
audience’s experience.
Failing to own your turf is the big mistake that can create a tough
crowd. If I show up five minutes before I start speaking, I have no idea
what the vibe is like. Every audience is different for a thousand reasons,
from what the traffic was like that morning to what sports team won or
lost the night before to what community politics are happening. If I just
show up right before my talk, I can’t sort out how much of it has to do
with me as opposed to general hatred for the world at large. Taking
responsibility for the crowd means showing up to the room early enough to
at least hear the previous speaker. Sometimes you’ll hear a joke or
comment in the previous talk that you can pick up on, or know to avoid,
given that it’s been used before. If the speaker was awesome but only got
cold stares from the crowd, you know something is up that’s larger than
you or the other speaker. But if he does well and gets great energy and
strong applause, yet you go down in flames, you know it’s not the
audience—it’s you.
Speaking in foreign countries makes this all too clear. You have no
idea what a tough crowd is until you’ve spoken in Sweden, Japan, or scores
of other countries where laughing, joking, and yelling out support during
a presentation are cultural taboos. And unless you speak the local
language, you’re being translated, which means the audience doesn’t know
what you said—or what the translator decided you said—until about 10
seconds after you’ve said it. When I spoke in Moscow, live translated just
like at the United Nations, the audience was awesome, but I didn’t know
why they were laughing until the translator explained it through my
earpiece. For long, horrible moments, I was afraid they were laughing at
or heckling me, rather than supporting what I’d said. After speaking
through live translation a few times, presenting to a rowdy crowd is a
breeze if they speak your native language.
If all else fails—you know the audience hates you and your point
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