Succeeding at sales
I seem to be missing required sincerity
In a bid to recruit new listeners to my podcast, I’ve spent the morning mailing out Heavyweight T- shirts to members of Gimlet Media, the show’s parent company.
“Not only does membership have its privileges, it also has its responsibilities,” I write in the introductory letter. “Which is why I’m asking you to customize your T-shirt in accordance to the activities you intend to wear it while doing. So knot the bottom when washing your car, roll up the sleeves when kissing your biceps, and forcefully tuck the bottom into your track pants when coaching Russian gymnastics.”
As soon as I’m finished writing it, I know the letter is too sarcastic. Salesmanship requires a level of sincerity that I seem to be missing from my DNA.
I’d once heard that the best proselytizers make themselves their first converts. I guess I just have a problem believing in myself. When I was working in public radio and had to do pledge drives, I pitched on the air with Alex, a fellow producer who both believed in himself and the cause. He was so good at asking for money he made listeners feel like throwing their wallets at the radio. I, on the other hand, stank. My pleas had the lilt of questions.
“Give us money,” I’d say, both deadpan and tentative. “You really should.”
If Alex had lived in Egypt during the plagues and had owned a boat shack, he’d have gone out in the street pitching the very night the rivers turned to blood.
“But have you tasted the waters?” he’d exclaim licking his chops. “My hand to Ra — cherry borscht!”
He’d have seen each of the ensuing plagues as opportunities. Cursed Darkness? Let’s-make- babiesnight! Hail mixed with fire? Refreshing joy nuggets and fun-time ouchie bolts!
Even though I have no talent for it, I’ve had a craving to succeed at the art of salesmanship all my life.
In my t eens, when I started selling subscriptions to the local paper over the phone, there was always something off about my performance, some tell, some quiver in my voice that suggested I didn’t genuinely care about what I was selling.
“I hear rumours around the office that we might be bringing Marmaduke back to the funny pages,” I’d say. Everything had an ironic edge. It came from always thinking two things at the same time. In situations where I’m trying to be persuasive, there’s this voice in my head, narrating my actions: “You don’t know what you’re doing,” it screams so loudly I’m often afraid other people can hear it. “Stop talking. Just stop talking.”
This is the self- defeating voice that’s been my companion throughout graduate school, various jobs, relationships and a short- lived career in spoken word poetry. It might be because of this inner voice that I got into broadcasting — to drown it out with a microphone.
And so I decide to just leave the letter as is.
“Hope you enjoy the podcast and the T- shirt,” I conclude. “Sincerely, Jonathan.”