Connecting Through Words

As a designer, I've built my career on using visual communication to relate, to make sense of, and to inspire better outcomes. However, I've long had an admiration for how other disciplines, especially writers, achieve similar results using a different skillset.

That's not to say writing is completely foreign to me. Over the course of my career, I've written countless rationales for presenting creative work, I've been in the trenches with executives helping them hone their visuals and talk tracks for global conferences, and, as a people-manager of a distributed team, I've leaned on writing to asynchronously inform, inspire, and convince.

Still, I want to become a better writer and I want my team to be better writers. So, recently during my rotation of leading a weekly design team meeting, we attempted a writing exercise. Why? Writing is a critical skill for everyone—not just writers. And being able to not only appreciate, but demonstrate proficiency in, multiple fields makes for a stronger designer. In my opinion, the best designers take ownership and will help guide the copy. And vice versa, the best writers will take ownership and help bring shape to the design.

The exercise I chose hearkens back to one of the most powerful examples of writing I've experienced as an adult. Several years ago, under the yellow glow of vintage stage lighting, writer Cole Farrell took the mic at a local creative meetup and shared his autobiography. It stopped me in my tracks. Of course it was well-written, but there was a different reason this experience was so powerful. He intentionally limited himself to writing three word sentences. It created an intoxicating rhythm that left myself, and the entire audience, hanging on each sentence. I was moved emotionally and connected with him deeply, even though we had never met. It was one of the clearest experiences I've had of writing's true power. I saw similarities in how I approached my own work, and I wanted to learn more.

Many years later, and though we're friends and also former colleagues, I couldn't repeat a single sentence from his talk. But that isn't the point. That night, Cole showed me that powerful writing wasn't about proving how smart you are, how big your vocabulary is or that you must have something profound to say. Its primary purpose was connecting with the audience and it can be real. Raw. Human.

With that as a backdrop, I had each of the designers think of a personal memory. It could be anything (happy, sad, funny). We took 10 minutes and wrote a story about the memory. But, like Cole's example, each sentence could only contain three words. Once the time was up, each of us shared our story with the group. We encouraged each other, pointed out similarities to our work as designers, and all walked away feeling like writing was a bit more accessible than before.

Without further ado, here is my story—celebrating the birth of my son—just as I wrote it during our team meeting.

Anticipation was building.
Hands were shaking.
Hearts were racing.
The unknown, ahead.
Am I ready?
What if complications?
Can I handle?
Violent shaking—medicine.
Reinstated calm, now.
Hands gripping tightly.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Clashing, clanging tools.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
An unfamiliar language.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
What is happening?
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Silence is deafening.
At last—finally.
The first cry.
Hearing, not seeing.
Seconds into minutes.
Time moving slowly.
Finally, we meet.
Eyes barely open.
Body wrapped tightly.
Holding new life.
Heart wide open.
My world changing.

If you, like me, are trying to become a better writer or inspire others to do so, feel free to try this exercise and let me know what you think.