Walking into a lift the other day, I was greeted by one of those people who cannot bear the overwhelming silence of a group of people in a confined space. I had barely pressed my floor number when she shot a question at me, "What do you do?!" Trying to regain the precarious balance of a pile of booklets in my arms, I just looked at her. I knew this moment would come. I had spoken about it before. I had even encouraged others to develop it. Now, it had actually happened! In the metallic flash of the greasy, finger-printed, closing lift doors, I had experienced a phenomenon move from the hypothetical to the real. It was ... the Elevator Statement.

Fortunately for me, she got out at the next floor (does one floor up or down qualify as enough time for an Elevator Pitch?), shortly after I had spluttered out some garbled answer that clearly left her dazed and confused. That spaced-out, glazed look people get in their eyes is one that I'm becoming quite accustomed to as I've explained the narrative work I do. Now, it may already be too late in this post to redeem myself from the intuitive question emerging in your head, "Have you wondered if that look is a result of how badly you communicate what you do?" Well, sure. While I may not be an uber-salesman, I know damn well that I'm a strong communicator (most of the time) who on an average day can capture what I do in some fairly logical sentences.  read more »