ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kerry Patterson is coauthor of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations. His fourth book, Change Anything, was recently released.

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Every now and then, someone accomplishes something so remarkable that you just have to talk about it. The accomplishment I have in mind has quietly taken place over the past two and a half decades in some of the most remote, desolate villages on earth. These places are so isolated they’re virtually never covered in any news stories and so desolate they have no rivers, streams, or other forms of running water to help keep them alive. Instead, shallow valleys near the villages fill with water during the rainy seasons and then slowly dry up and fester as the annual drought burns its way through the calendar.

As the months pass, the water holes become contaminated with all manner of microbes. In the midst of this deadly cocktail live tens of thousands of sand fleas. Inside the sand fleas you’ll find even tinier larvae. The sand fleas are so small they’re hard to see unless you scoop them up in a glass of water and hold them up to the light. Even then, if you have no microbiologists or theory of modern medicine, you wouldn’t know what to think of the squirming, translucent creatures within.

The villagers, given no other choices, gather the contaminated water, pour it into earthen pots, carry it to their huts and use it for washing, cooking, and drinking. Once ingested, the sand fleas dissolve, freeing the larvae to enter the human body and transmute into tiny worms that, over the next ninety days, grow into three-foot long vermicelli-like monsters. Then a cruel genetic trumpet sounds. The worms respond to the call by excreting acid to burn a path through their host’s body as they tunnel their way out of their human prison. The pain of this nine-month long exodus is excruciating.

Finally, to give purpose to the hellacious journey, once the worm pokes its head out of its human host, it causes an intense burning and itching that can only be soothed by immersing the infected body part in the local water source—at which point the creature releases thousands of tiny eggs back into the fetid mother water—completing the life-cycle of the Guinea Worm.

For thousands of years, villagers have suffered the pain and debilitating injuries caused by the Guinea Worm’s unspeakable and lengthy journey. Not knowing how to explain the presence of the pest, locals blamed the infected villagers for hosting the worm. According to legend, sinners bring the fiery monster upon themselves.

“Surely she’s an adulteress and that’s why her children are now being cursed.”

“He must have stolen from the village and now he’s paying the price.”

To add suffering to insult, the infected (and now maligned) villagers are unable to work for months on end, so great is their pain as the worm follows its nine-month path. Many starve. Children are unable to go to school, so they remain illiterate. And all of this pain and misery has been going on in parts of Asia and sub-Saharan Africa for thousands of years.

Eventually, the plight of the Guinea Worm came to the attention of scientists who figured out both its life cycle and the cure. It’s simple. Encourage villagers to filter the water and the larvae are eliminated. In cases where people are infected, keep them from washing in the water source. Either way you short-circuit the life cycle and the dreaded worm (which only grows in human beings) disappears in an evolutionary blink. Medicines are not effective. Surgery is out of the question. But get people to filter their water and not wash their sores in the water source, and the creature will become extinct.

As this horrible plight became more public, hundreds of medical professionals and change agents tried their best to eradicate the worm, but with little success. Simply telling people to filter the water proved insufficient. Locals didn’t trust the outsiders. And, of course, not soothing your burning sores in the water, once infected, called for a monumental act of self-discipline.

Twenty-five years ago, when experts at the Carter Center in Atlanta, Georgia turned their attention to the Guinea Worm plight, more than 3.5 million people from 20 countries were still infected. Here was the big question: what change strategy could they come up with that others had been unable to discover? What would it take to get 3.5 million people—along with their friends, family, and neighbors—to filter their water and keep infected villagers from washing their sores in the local water source?

Two years ago, we wrote about this indefatigable group of Carter Center change agents in our book Influencer. We told of how they had been creatively applying a variety of clever change methods. For instance, they learned to gain support from respected, local leaders. Otherwise, nobody trusted them. They used clever posters, created contests and awards (complete with slogan-bearing t-shirts), posted warning signs near the water source, and taught people how to effectively confront neighbors who didn’t follow the rules—to name but a few of their techniques.

By combining change methods, one upon another, the group slowly made progress. Person by person, village by village, country by country, the tiny band of Carter Center experts gradually eliminated the cursed beast. Then, just a few weeks ago, one of our contacts at the center invited us to a special event. The center would be holding a news conference followed by an awards ceremony and a gala. We eagerly booked our flights.

Two weeks later, as news cameras ran and reporters sat poised to take notes, former president Jimmy Carter entered the crowded room. He was beaming with joy.

“We’re proud to announce,” he enthused, “the complete eradication of the Guinea Worm in two new countries—Niger and Nigeria.” From there the former president went on to explain how these two countries have now joined 14 other nations that have completely eliminated Guinea Worm disease. Today, less than 1,800 cases remain.

All of this extraordinary progress has been made under the leadership of a mere handful of people who possess two important qualities. First, they have learned what it takes to both motivate and enable people all over the world to act differently. That makes them members of a rather elite group of true influencers. Second, they chose to apply their skills to millions of individuals who, for centuries, have endured incalculable suffering. All of this, of course, has been accomplished under horrific conditions, for modest salaries, and often far away from home.

Just imagine the good these intrepid change agents have done. If the sufferers who had been infected were to attend a gathering hosted by the Carter Center—say in the fashion of a wedding reception where people stand in line, greet one another, and talk briefly—you might overhear comments such as:

“Thank you, I’m able to work my farm for the first time in over a year.”

“Bless you, my children have now returned to school.”

This line of gratitude would run 24 hours a day—for more than 400 days! And this doesn’t include the millions of people who would have been infected but now won’t be.

When my partners and I first wrote about influencers, we were delighted to discover that when you become a truly effective change agent, you can succeed with the most intractable of problems. We learned challenges that have gone on for generations have been carefully reduced, even eliminated, in select pockets throughout the world.

However, it never occurred to us what might happen if someone applied these skills to something as important as disease eradication. In the case of the Guinea Worm, less than a dozen people (with the help of hundreds of agencies and tens of thousands of volunteers) have led a behavior-change revolution unlike any ever accomplished on earth. They’ve nearly eradicated a horrible disease. Within the next few years, they’ll have completely eliminated it.

I take my hat off to these dedicated, talented, selfless people. At a time when the news is filled with disasters, debacles, and disillusionment, it’s a delight to pause and reflect on the work of a handful of selfless heroes who make us all proud. I get goose bumps thinking about what they might do next.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kerry Patterson is coauthor of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations. His fourth book, Change Anything, will be available April 2011.

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  Dear Crucial Skills,

I work in a large international company and lead a team of eight experienced human resource managers. Several of the managers use irony and humor to downplay their colleagues, and I strongly feel that this creates a bad atmosphere because most of the colleagues do not appreciate this way of talking. Should I confront the issue with the entire group or should I deal with the misbehaving colleagues individually?

Wisecrack manager

This is an interesting challenge because it deals with the use of humor at its worst—humor used as a tool for taking shots at people, but done in a way that maintains plausible deniability.

“Hey, I was just kidding, can’t you take a joke?”

I know a fair amount about this particular tactic because it was a huge part of my influence repertoire during, say, the first thirty years of my life. I—like most of my close friends—developed keen skills in the use of sarcasm and irony. It was a huge part of my identity. Then, one day, after my wife stumbled awkwardly and I retorted, “Smooth move, did you enjoy the trip?” she responded: “You know what? If you never again use sarcasm—until the day I die—that would be just fine with me. I don’t like it, the kids don’t like it, and there’s no place for it in our home.”

“Hey! Who died and left you in charge?” I shouted boldly and firmly within the confines of my mind as a way of testing out my response before actually putting my foot in my mouth. Then I thought better and whined: “But I really like being sarcastic.”

As the conversation unfolded, I learned that it’s actually quite difficult to defend your right to take cheap shots, dole out insults, and cut people down—all in the name of humor. Trust me. You never want to be the defense attorney when sarcasm goes to court. So, maybe I needed to reconsider my stance. Perhaps, getting a laugh at the expense of a coworker, colleague, friend, or loved one isn’t nearly as endearing as I had once thought it was. And so, I said goodbye to that part of me and my wife has been ever grateful.

Now, to your question as to whether you should bring up the problem individually or in a group. It’s tempting to say something to the entire team. That way you don’t have to accuse anyone directly, plus it’s efficient. One conversation replaces five or six. But then again, you take several risks when you hold a team problem-solving discussion.

First, as you talk with a group, one or more of the people who abuse humor might conclude that you aren’t talking to them. They, after all, are actually quite funny and their cute remarks are loved and appreciated by all. Or so they think.

Second, those who don’t fall into the trap of abusing humor won’t like being thrown into the pot with the actual offenders. Nobody likes being accused of a crime they haven’t committed.

Third, it’s hard to anchor your discussion in facts by pointing to the last instance of abusive humor when you’re talking in general terms. When it comes to discussing problems in an effective way, you need to point to actual instances, preferably on the heels of the occurrence, so the person understands the exact nature of the offense.

It will take longer, but you need to talk to the offenders one-on-one. And as the conversation unfolds, follow the steps we outline in Crucial Confrontations.

Assume the best of others. Perhaps others do think they’re only having fun and they’re unaware that their use of humor can be hurtful. Respectfully and unemotionally describe the last instance, focusing on specific behaviors.

Ask if others see the problem differently. If others seem unmoved to drop their use of sarcasm and irony, explain the consequences of their actions in detail. Talk about how it has affected you. Suggest an alternative means of dealing with the issues.

Discuss the pros and cons. Jointly discuss the benefits of honestly and openly addressing problems rather than approaching them obliquely and possibly at the expense of others.

Thank others for their efforts. End by thanking them for the frank conversation and express your appreciation for their willingness to drop harsh humor from their repertoire.

You are right to confront this damaging behavior immediately, especially because a few managers are creating a bad atmosphere for the rest of your team. As you talk to each employee individually, don’t let him or her use the excuse I mentioned above—”Hey, I was just kidding, can’t you take a joke?” Make sure each employee is aware of the damage he or she is doing to morale, productivity, and results. Establish a zero tolerance policy and encourage employees to hold others accountable when they violate that policy.

Kerry

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kerry Patterson is coauthor of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations. His fourth book, Change Anything, will be available April 2011.

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Listen to Kerrying On via Mp3
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Sometimes when I wake up it’s 1957 and I’m eleven years old. The genesis of this repeated misgiving is rooted in a time from my early childhood when my dad held a job at the local plywood plant and collected payments on magazine subscriptions at night. Between his two jobs, Dad earned enough money to put us just below the poverty line. We lived down a long, lonely, dirt road in a house so small Kareem Abdul Jabbar could have stretched out his arms and spanned the entire structure. But Mom had dreams. She would help us work our way to greater prosperity.

After trying a variety of failed home businesses, Mom read an ad in the local paper placed by an elderly couple who wanted to sell their college boarding house. The massive structure they were selling sat across the street from the local college and housed a gaggle of college girls. Mom immediately borrowed our neighbor’s car, drove to the domicile, met with the aging couple, and talked them into loaning her money so she and Dad could then make a down payment on the home.

“It’s easy,” Mom enthused. “All I have to do is cook breakfast and dinner for seventeen people seven days a week. How hard could that be?” The day after inking the deal, Mom was up at 6:00 a.m. making breakfast—which included throwing bacon on the grill at 6:20 a.m. Eventually, the smell of this frying bacon would awaken me just in time to complete my task of setting the table for the crowd. To this day, when someone arises early at our home and cooks bacon, I wake up to the familiar smell and think it’s 1957.

Thanks to Mom’s dream, our little family had climbed out of a shack in the woods and into a large and comfortable boarding house, but there was never any money left over for things such as vacations and college funds and I was now a teenager with an eye set on a higher education. So Mom put me to work painting the entire boarding house—four hours a day, every day, for three summers. “I’ll pay you when you graduate high school and I send you off to college,” Mom explained one day when I had the audacity to ask for money for the work I was doing.

But how would Mom earn the college money she had promised me? At first, she made wedding cakes. But that was a lot of work for a small profit. She needed to dream bigger. And then, it hit her. She lived across the street from a college, why not attend? So, in 1964 when I graduated from high school, Mom graduated from college and took a full-time job as a teacher—generating, as promised, whatever college funds I lacked.

And Mom’s dreams didn’t end there. After I married and graduated from college, Mom dreamed her way across the country to live near my growing family. After she and dad retired, she dreamed the two of them to Guadalajara, Mexico where they set up affordable living in a small American retirement community.

But not all of Mom’s dreams panned out. “What’s the hole in the backyard?” I asked Mom one day after returning from college to a new home Mom and Dad had moved to while I was away.

“I’m digging a swimming pool,” she explained with a straight face. She and Dad didn’t have the money to build a pool, but if Mom dug a hole, then maybe they’d find a way. Always the dreamer.

A few days later, I overheard a woman at church asking who my mother was. Another woman from the congregation explained, “She’s the lady with the hole in her backyard.” Apparently the word had spread of her harebrained scheme. What middle-aged woman digs her own swimming pool with a hand shovel? And it turns out the detractors were right. Mom never did finish the pool—just the hole.

Throughout her life, Mom had many detractors. “You’ll never be able to buy a boarding house. You have no money.” “You’ll never be able to settle in Mexico. How will you get there?” “You’ll never, you’ll never, you’ll never . . .”

And sometimes they were right. Years of cooking for seventeen people yielded no profits. Dozens of wedding cakes resulted in little money. And then there was always that hole in the backyard. People who only saw that hole and knew nothing of Mom’s other more successful endeavors thought she was zany—even irresponsible. Friends and family who heard of Mom and Dad’s misadventures as they pulled a trailer down the Baja to find affordable housing in Mexico shook their heads in disbelief. “She comes up with these crazy schemes, and then he has to live them,” Dad’s side of the family would lament. Everyone was always taking shots at the dreamer.

But Mom wasn’t your typical, high-profile dreamer. She wasn’t a Cinderella. Cinderella, as did most fairy princesses of her time, dreamed of the day she would be rescued from her plight and taken away to live in a sumptuous castle where she would live happily ever after. Just because she was nice and pretty, she would be rescued.

Unlike Cinderella, Mom never asked for or expected handouts. All she wanted was a chance to work her way to a new station in life. Her dreams always ended with her and Dad (and often me) working our way to the next rung up the ladder.

I share this with you today because with the recent economic downturn and the accompanying malaise, I see far too many people who have the courage to dream, fail. After enduring ridicule from the people around them, they give up. Many simply settle. They take a job they absolutely despise because they need the work and then stay on for years. Or they close their eyes and imagine better times, but in order to reach them they do little more than buy a lottery ticket. They hold out for the mathematically impossible.

Or, perhaps worst of all, they stop dreaming. Instead, they come up with unimaginative plans that lead to marginal improvements. They assume that setting mini-goals will take them to their Valhalla, when, in truth, they need bigger hopes, bigger plans, and a bigger harness. Equally important, when they run into problems (and they will), they need to see setbacks not as evidence that dreaming is futile and silly, but as helpful feedback on what needs to change. In short, they need to dream, try, fail, make adjustments, and then dream again.

And so today (on my mother’s birthday) I honor her and all others who fight for their dreams, despite the naysayers and setbacks. I honor those who not only have the courage to dream, but also the energy to fight for it. I honor those who, despite the occasional loss, dare to create one more dream because, unlike most of us, they open their eyes wide enough to see the fruits of their past efforts—not just the hole in their backyard.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is the author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
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During this holiday season, we would like to share one of our favorite holiday Kerrying On articles and invite you to watch for opportunities to help those in need.

Over twenty years ago, I received the most amazing Christmas gift. Today I share it with you.

It was December of 1984 and my wife and children and I were eagerly shopping for a teenage boy we had never met. This particular shopping spree was part of a sub-for-Santa adventure we and four other families were undertaking. This was the third year in a row the gang of us had agreed to help a needy family (this year it was a mother, father, and five children) and we approached the task with our usual mix of joy and anxiety. Could we truly help someone? Would we be a blessing in their lives or would we disappoint them?

Two days later, we nervously gathered presents, food, and clothing, piled into our cars, and drove through a constant drizzle to a small house that sported the address given to us by the local relief agency. “It looks small,” said my oldest daughter as five cars chock-full of parents and children pulled up to the house.

Gingerly we carried the boxes to the front porch. (Later my oldest daughter revealed that you could see four noses pressed against the window as the family’s younger children looked on in excitement.) Not knowing exactly what to do, we eventually all gathered in the freezing rain and started to sing Christmas carols. At the end of the second carol, the father of the clan took pity on us, stepped out into the rain, and begged all of us to please come in. “In where?” I thought as I looked around at the crowd and figured if we all went inside, we’d explode the house.

Minutes later as we stood cheek to jowl, the father began to talk. He explained that he had undergone back surgery earlier that year and hadn’t been able to return to work quite yet. It hadn’t been an easy choice, but he had decided that if they were to have any presents for the kids, he’d have to call on one of the local agencies, which he did. He thanked us copiously for answering the call.

“Now, in turn for your presents, I offer you one of my own—in the form of a story,” he continued.

“Eight years ago when we had only two children and I was just getting started in my career, we were facing a rather meager Christmas. We bought my oldest son, who was eight at the time, and his sister who was four, two presents. One was a pair of socks, the other a toy. My son had asked for a basketball, and from the size and shape of his two packages under the tree, there would be no surprise for him that year.” The son, who was now a gawky teenager standing shyly in the hallway, nodded in agreement.

“One evening two days before Christmas I came home with an announcement.” The father continued. “A new family had moved in not far from our house, and since they didn’t have two pennies to rub together, they wouldn’t be having a Christmas. They had a boy and girl the same ages as our family and I was thinking that maybe we could share Christmas with them.

“‘We could each give them one of our two presents,’ my wife suggested as our two children looked on in suspicion.”

“Finally, after staring at his two presents under the tree for what seemed like ten minutes, my son walked over, picked up the package containing the basketball, and said, ‘I’ll share this one.’ Each of us then grabbed one of our two presents, put it in a box, and carried our gift down to our new neighbors who seemed very grateful.”

As he told the story I noticed that my own children were fixed on him, their eyes brimming with tears as they thought of how these people had sacrificed so dearly.

“Later that day,” the father continued to explain, “I received a phone call from my local church leader. It turned out that there were a few families in our little church group that didn’t have any money for Christmas that year. A group of generous people had put together several boxes of presents and food for the needy families. Since I was driving a rather large and beat-up station wagon that had a lot of hauling space, he asked if I would be so kind as to drive to the church on Christmas Eve, load up the wagon, and make the various deliveries. ‘Besides,’ my church leader explained, ‘your two young ones will get a kick out of playing Santa.’

“I immediately agreed to lend a hand. But I knew in so doing I was in trouble. I hung up the phone and explained to my family what I had committed to do, and then shared with them the challenge. We had spent all of our money on Christmas, and the station wagon was almost out of gas. We’d have to find a way to raise some cash to fill the gas tank to make the deliveries.”

“‘We could collect soda pop bottles,’ my daughter quickly suggested. That’s what she had seen her older brother do in order to raise a few pennies. This, of course, was at a time that if you retrieved a discarded pop bottle by the side of the road and took it to a local grocery store they’d give you two cents for it.

“So it was agreed. We bundled up against the wind and snow and all day long the day of Christmas Eve we hunted for bottles. Finally, just before we were due to make the deliveries, we cashed in the bottles, put a couple of gallons of gas into the old wagon, and drove over to the church.”

“As our church leader loaded box after box filled with beautifully wrapped presents into our dilapidated vehicle, my son and daughter looked on in wonder. They sniffed the air with a look of longing as he loaded in a carton containing freshly baked pies and a ham along with all the trimmings. They squished over to the edge of their seat as the boxes stacked one upon the other until our wagon was filled to bursting.”

“Our church leader handed me an envelope containing a list of the various names and addresses of the people we were to visit, and then thanked us profusely for helping with the deliveries. As he drove off I opened the envelope to see the extent of the task in front of us. The small piece of paper I found inside the envelope contained but one name and address. It was ours.”

As the humble man finished his story, those of us who had come to help his family were either openly crying or doing a poor job of holding back tears. I was completely humbled as I envisioned this sweet man and woman and their two children bracing against the wind and searching for bottles—doing their very best to help the needy.

What made the story all the more wonderful was that the gentleman telling it did his best to make the church leader and the other generous members of his congregation out to be the heroes—look how nice they had been to his family, he had explained, just as we were now being nice to them this year.

It had never occurred to the man we had come to help that as thoughtful as his church friends had been to him and his family, our motley sub-for-Santa gang looked on him and his children with a genuine sense of amazement. They were the ones who shared their Christmas. They were the ones who, as others drank cocoa by the fireplace or stirred fudge in the kitchen, trudged through frozen fields in a quest for two-cent treasures. They were the true heroes and didn’t even know it.

My family and I count this sweet experience as our favorite holiday gift. It’s a present that will live with us forever.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is the author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
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Thirty years ago, after landing my first consulting job, I could hardly wait to get started. For years, I had studied how to change the world and now it was my turn to roll up my sleeves and actually do something. The goal of this particular project was to take an adversarial, punitive, and authoritarian corporate culture and turn it into a productive, team-oriented place. At least, that’s what the plant manager requested.

“And I want it soon!” the agitated manager told me over the phone. “Or heads are going to roll.”

As I drove to the airport on my way to the anxious manager’s factory, I couldn’t help but notice a bumper sticker sported by several of my neighbors. The popular sticker stated rather immodestly—”Irvine: Another Day in Paradise.” Several hours later, as I exited the Wayne County Airport on my way to visit the client, I noticed Detroit’s version of the home-town promotional slogan on a sweatshirt: “Detroit: Where the Weak Are Killed . . . and Eaten.”

Later that day, as I interviewed hourly employees, I got my first glimpse into the rather un-paradise-like nature of the company I was supposed to help fashion into a paragon of cooperation. When I asked the question “If you ran this place, what changes would you make?” the employees immediately started ridiculing their leaders. At one point, they told of a supervisor throwing a heavy ashtray through a plate-glass window and then chopping up a breaker box with a fire ax—you know, to get his team’s attention. Later, during that same interview, a rather animated employee explained that the ashtray-hurling supervisor’s direct reports eventually grew tired of his shenanigans and one Friday afternoon chased him out to his car. When he climbed on top of it for safety, they lit the car on fire!

Then things turned from scary to complicated. As I interviewed a group of supervisors from whence this ashtray thrower came, they (much to my surprise) seemed reasonable and rational—nothing like the slavering maniacs their direct reports had just described. In fact, they appeared rather pleasant. The supervisors did share one thing in common with their direct reports. They had a bone to pick with their own bosses, the superintendents who, in their words, were authoritarian monsters. Of course, when I met the superintendents, they seemed quite professional, and—you guessed it—they pretty much loathed their bosses, the managers.

As it turns out, everyone at this rather frightening factory blamed everyone else for their problems and everyone—based upon the unprofessional actions of their bosses—felt justified in their own counterproductive behaviors. Why? Because everyone deserved whatever you gave them. And this wasn’t a problem unique to this particular factory, city, or region. As my career has unfolded, I’ve run into similarly violent and reactive places all around the country.

Not everyone lights cars on fire, of course, but the idea of dealing back what you’ve been dealt is still widely shared. It seems one of the values reflected in today’s video games, TV shows, and movies has left its mark. All encourage revenge. For instance, the longest running TV show of my generation, started with the “bad guy” riding into town, getting off his horse, spitting on a nun, and pistol-whipping a schoolmarm. Then, for a full 55 minutes, the good guys sought revenge on that pistol-toting bad guy, who, as we all knew, deserved whatever he got. And to this day, this same troublesome theme continues on the screen.

I recently mentioned our seemingly insatiable thirst for revenge to my next-door neighbor and he chuckled softly and stated, “I have the same problem with my own children. They’ll be in the middle of a squabble, I’ll ask one of them what’s going on, and my oldest son will invariably come back with, ‘It all started when he hit me back!’”

“It all started when he hit me back!” What a clever encapsulation of a contemporary malaise. As long as others mistreat us, we can mistreat them right back. Because, well, they deserve it.

I’ve thought about this issue for quite some time, and as many of you know, it permeates our writing. For example, the principle of working on ourselves first from Crucial Conversations suggests we need to think less about exacting revenge on others and more about our own style under stress. Equally true, maybe we shouldn’t mirror the very behavior we loathe. Transforming others into villains and viewing ourselves as heroes also fuels the fires of getting even. In short, in both our training and books we teach that responding to violence with violence is a bad thing, and I believe we’ve made some progress. In fact, in that first factory where a supervisor wielded an ax, leaders learned to effectively handle high-stakes, emotional conversations, and over the next two years violence decreased significantly.

Today, I hope to take this message to a new audience: children. Actually, I’m hoping you’ll pass the message along for me. I know, asking a favor deviates quite a bit from your standard business newsletter, and writing something for children—why that’s virtually unheard of. But it’s my hope that if we can set kids on the right path while they’re still young, they’ll be better prepared for the unrelenting stream of invitations to violence that will most assuredly assault them as they turn on their TVs, play their video games, go to movies, and eventually show up at work.

So, with the children in mind, and in the spirit of the holiday season, I’ve written a rather Seussian children’s tale that I hope you’ll share with the young ones in your world. It’s not about mistletoe, snowmen, and the like, but apropos to the season of love and tranquility, it shares a message of peace—the kind of peace one creates through a healthy and loving response to how others treat us, even when they’re being naughty, not nice. The short (three minute) story is intended to be accompanied by pictures, but I haven’t arranged for the artwork yet. So for this holiday, I plan on reading it aloud to my grandchildren, sans illustrations. You might consider doing the same.

Download Story Here

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
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  Dear Crucial Skills,

I used to think I was kind and careful with my words, but I am a month and a half into a new job and feel I can’t trust myself to communicate well over e-mail at all. The time-sensitive nature of solving problems for people means I can’t always ask for the feedback that would help them feel respected, and I find that the tone of my words is rarely interpreted the way I meant them. Do you have any advice for holding crucial conversations over e-mail?

Electronically Challenged

As you’re suggesting, real conversations rarely occur via e-mail. That makes e-mail a particularly dangerous tool for engaging in a crucial conversation. When stakes are high, opinions vary, and emotions run strong, that’s the one time you really need to make use of a genuine, face-to-face conversation. You need all of your faculties for reading the other person’s reaction and electronic tools can severely limit this. To make matters worse, when you’re typing messages back and forth (often separated by a fair amount of time), there’s no room for subtle give and take. For instance, in a face-to-face discussion you might immediately pick up on the other person’s reticence to comply with a request and choose to back off and try a different tactic. You have no such option when you type out your entire request and then wait for a response.

I know I’m preaching to the choir, but allow me to continue with some of the challenges of electronic communication. Imagine writing a lengthy request you know will be difficult for the other person to complete. You also suspect the work you’re asking the other person to do will put his or her work-life balance at risk. That’s not the kind of thing you want to communicate via e-mail. Inevitably, such a request would lay out every element of the project. To the receiver, that would look like one demand heaped upon another—creating stress, concern, and even anger.

I’ve found myself reading such electronic requests and becoming miffed because the other person seems to blindly plow along with further demands despite my growing frustration. While he or she can’t see the frustration on my face, I assume he or she is just being insensitive to my clearly hostile reaction.

Then, of course, time and distance only make matters worse. As I push back from the offensive e-mail request, I fill in the detail about the other person’s motives. Because I can’t see the concern on his or her face or detect the warmth in his or her voice, I assume he or she doesn’t care about me. This person is cold and calculating and not at all in touch with the fact that I will now miss my daughter’s birthday thanks to the request.

It’s little wonder you’re concerned about holding crucial conversations by e-mail. Bad things can happen when you do—particularly when people don’t know you very well. So here are few steps you can take to eliminate or at least lessen the risks.

First, don’t hold truly crucial conversations via e-mail. Whether you’re making a request, offering an unpopular opinion, or disagreeing with someone in a position of power—whatever the high-stakes dynamics—do everything in your power to hold a face-to-face conversation.

If you can’t meet face-to-face, then find a reasonable substitute. Try talking by means of video-chat software. There can be short delays with this medium, but this form of conversation allows for a simple statement, followed by a pause that allows the other person to respond before you’ve plowed on ahead with a massive request. You can also see brows furrowing and other signs of hesitation or even anger and quickly take steps to mitigate the reaction.

If you don’t have video capabilities, a handy invention created on March 10th of 1876 can be of great assistance. Although the telephone cuts off visual clues, it does allow for two important elements of a healthy conversation. One, you can speak, pause, and allow the other person to speak, avoiding the data dump of a single written missive. Two, you can notice pauses, tone of voice changes, and other vocal indicators that the other person is feeling reticent or emotional. Since you’ll miss visual cues, you’ll have to take special care to listen for signs of stress, but you can typically pick up signs before the conversation spins out of control.

I recently asked my son-in-law, who constantly holds high-stakes conversations with people all over the world, what he does to succeed given the challenge of distance, lack of visual cues, multiple parties on the line, and language differences. His response came immediately: “I listen for pauses, tension, and other signs that not everyone is on board with the proposal. I also take special care to invite the opinion of individuals who have remained largely silent. I never assume silence is a sign of agreement. In fact, I assume the opposite until I hear genuine confirmation.”

Now, if you’re facing circumstances where you can only communicate electronically, then use the medium as an invitation to a real conversation. Explain that you need to chat as quickly as possible. Don’t lead with your controversial content. Instead, start with a simple invitation.

Finally, if you don’t have time for a delayed response, then start your request tactfully and tentatively. Since people don’t know you very well, it sounds as if they may be making the worst rather than the best assumptions about your sensitivity to their circumstances. With time, as others learn about your caring nature and willingness to cooperate, people will begin to trust you and you can communicate by multiple methods.

Until then, when forced to follow an electronic path, apologize for using e-mail for making a challenging request. You’d much prefer to talk face-to-face, but demands require immediate action. Explain that you’re sensitive to the other person’s differing opinion or horrendous workload (or whatever it is that will put you at odds), and then lay out (1) the reason you’re pressed for time and (2) the rationale behind this specific request. This typically includes the consequences you, others, and the company will experience if the request isn’t met. Take care to share the context, not just your demands. Then tactfully ask if the other person can comply or can come up with an alternate solution. Finally, thank the other person for his or her kind consideration and end by asking for an immediate response so you know where you stand.

Once again, this is the sort of thing you do only when you have no alternative or if you already have a relationship of mutual respect and trust with the other person.

Kerry

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is the author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
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The following article was first published on November 24, 2004.

As we embark on two months of holiday gatherings, many of us are wondering what it’ll take to survive the unavoidable conflicts that lie ahead. Friends and loved ones will gather around a cornucopia of recently harvested food and, despite their best efforts to avoid all things hostile, controversial topics will weasel their way into the conversation.

Here’s your common holiday fare. Dad denounces his firstborn for canceling out his vote in the latest election. Granny asks her grandniece why she’s dressed like a hussy—Halloween has already passed. Mom plays the martyr as she tries to guilt-trip anyone who walks through the kitchen into working. She’s been serving up heaping spoonfuls of guilt along with the feast for years.

Eventually, two or more loved ones end up in a contentious debate. What starts out as a pleasant gathering with relatives wassailing each other left and right, transforms into a scene from A Jerry Springer Holiday. And as a result (to put a twist on Jim Croce’s famous tune), we think about the gatherings that lie ahead and we all come down with: “The steadily depressin’, low down mind messin’, celebratin’ holiday blues.”

In fact, 85 percent of the readers we recently polled stated that their family holiday gatherings include at least one heated argument where a valued relationship suffers. Rather than strengthening family bonds with each holiday gathering, one more link in the chain of family unity is further corroded. I speak from experience.

As a boy, I looked forward to each Thanksgiving and Christmas season more than any other time of year. It was a time when I got to sit next to my brother, dad, grandfather, and uncle and watch football. I don’t remember much about the games, but I can still smell the faint aroma of granddad’s nickel cigar and feel the afterglow of the camaraderie that enveloped each event. At dinner, the men would compete for who could load up their plate the highest while the women mockingly chided them for courting a coronary. Of course, nothing earth shaking happened at these gatherings. I guess if the world looked in on these events they would think they were sappy. I thought they were wonderful. We loved and respected each other and it showed.

So why was it that when my beloved family members met in full force for the last time (before kids married and moved away and grandparents passed on), I had to be such a moron? I was now an adult fresh out of grad school where I learned all about the importance of theoretical rigor and solid methodology. So when my cousin mentioned that she was “into” subliminal learning, I couldn’t help myself. Not only did she believe that if she played audio tapes while she slept her brain would magically take it all in (something that had been discredited years earlier), but she also believed that if she listened to her favorite guru yammer on about who knows what, she would be healed.

No sooner had she announced to the crowd that she was speeding down the subliminal highway to sound mental health than I laid into her arguments like a pit bull on a pork chop. Unfortunately, her claims couldn’t be disproved. Her arguments always ended with, “but it works for me.” She was a master at ducking scientific inquiry. For instance, years later she moved a chair in her living room to “alter the room’s karma,” and sure enough she was “back on the road to psychic balance”—or so she claimed.

Not being able to discredit my cousin’s arguments, I pointed out that the one-room-school over a garage where she currently studied family therapy wasn’t a school at all—it was a loosely-coupled gathering of flakes and charlatans. I offered up this heart-felt remark to no effect. In fact, my cousin merely smiled knowingly. I hated that smile. It hit me like a punch to the forehead.

So I punched back. Quickly I moved from lobbing cheap shots to launching a full-fledged personal attack. As I raised my voice, the spirit in the room changed from merriment to discord. My tone clanked against the pleasant background music and gentle chatter. All by myself I defiled the very spirit of the holidays. All by myself I upset the delicate balance of the successful family shindig. And hot dang, I was proud.

My cousin rose to the fight, matching insult with insult. Soon we were one more casualty in the book of failed holiday gatherings—all because of one thing. I just had to be right. I just had to set the record straight. I just had to attack the faulty details. And then for years to come, instead of apologizing for taking a sacred family tradition and sullying it with ill will, I acted as if what I had done was somehow noble.

That’s right. I was just doing my part to defend sound logic and thinking. Others could listen politely while my cousin raised idiocy to an art form, but I wouldn’t take it. I’d challenge her outlandish claims and if I hurt her feelings in the process or dealt the family gathering a death blow, that’s the price I’d pay for defending scientific rigor. All great things come at a price.

This was my story and I stuck to it for two decades.

So, here’s why 85 percent of the people we recently polled experience discord right along with their annual mug of eggnog. Every family gathering that has been brought to its knees by a heated and unsuccessful confrontation contains two or more participants who not only refuse to apologize for their role in the debacle, but who justify their mean-spirited and selfish attacks by explaining that they were merely defending a core value—and how wrong can that be?

Dad wants nothing more than to help sonny-boy come to his senses. That’s why he tries to set him straight. Granny wants her grandniece to quit sending the wrong message with her scandalous attire—so she won’t attract the wrong guys. Mom just wants some credit for all that she does for everyone—is that asking too much?

Let me break from the pack by making a pact. This year I’m not going to sacrifice family unity no matter what anyone says—or no matter how important the value I think I’m defending. Should a cousin announce that her health has greatly improved since she’s started eating a bushel of pine cones for breakfast while spinning hubcaps on her thumbs, I won’t laugh out loud. I’ll ask why and then actually listen. And if I still have a different view, I’ll express it in a pleasant and caring way.

Here’s my plan. I’m going to start every discussion by asking what I really want. Does everyone really have to believe what I believe? Do I really have to win each and every point?

One thing’s for sure—I don’t want to turn every gathering into an event where you can’t talk about anything substantive; I just want to talk about interesting and important issues in a way that doesn’t violate the spirit of the holidays. I want my own children to enjoy the sweet taste of healthy family discourse, good will, and genuine camaraderie. And to keep on track, I’ll continually ask myself: “What is it that I really want?” That’s the plan.

Who’s with me?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
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  Dear Crucial Skills,

Can you address nonverbal communication and ways to control sending messages that you do not intend? I often get feedback that it is my tone of voice rather than my message that people are offended by and that my tone is negative and condescending. This is not my intent. How do I get a handle on it?

Misunderstood

We’ve all heard the old adage that ninety percent of communication is nonverbal. While I’m not sure how one actually measures such a squishy thing, there is indeed truth in the notion that our words alone are not our only way of sending messages. Our facial expressions, volume, tone of voice, and body movements combine to send messages as well.

Not only do we communicate with more than words, we also tend to give more credence to others’ nonverbal forms of communication. For instance, your sister opens a present you’ve just given her, frowns, pauses, puts on what appears to be a forced smile, and says robotically, “Thanks, it’s exactly what I wanted.” Then she tosses your present into her growing pile of bounty.

In your view, your sister’s words of appreciation don’t match her tone, delivery, and other body movements and you’re betting this less-controlled (and possibly more-credible) nonverbal message of disappointment is the message you should believe. In your view, she told you a white lie to avoid hurting your feelings. You may be wrong, but when faced with what appear to be incongruent words and actions, we frequently come up with similar conclusions.

Now, back to you. If others tell you that you sound negative and condescending, it’s possibly because your thoughts are negative and condescending. You might actually be thinking bad things about the other person and you can’t hide your feelings well. Some people are actually quite adept at hiding these negative thoughts, putting on an upbeat face, and moving on without coming across as harsh or condescending. But most of us are not all that good at masking the emotions our stories create. We can only solve our problem by changing what we think about others. When we want to discuss issues professionally and calmly, we can’t hold court in our head, find the other person guilty, and expect to act respectfully and cordially toward them.

We learned the simple truism that the body follows the heart when producing a training video some twenty years ago. We were directing a marvelous character actor who was supposed to deliver the line: “You agreed to have the write-up to me by noon. It’s two o’clock. I’ve received nothing as of yet and I was wondering what happened.” The idea behind the script was to simply describe a problem to a coworker and find out what was going on.

When our friend delivered the rather innocuous line to the other actor, he frowned and emphasized the words “AND I’VE RECEIVED NOTHING AS OF YET.” His delivery came off as an accusation and not as a legitimate inquiry. When we asked him why he was so tough on his “coworker,” he explained he didn’t like being let down and the guy deserved harsh treatment. Now take note; he didn’t change the line one bit, but his tone, expression, and nonverbal actions were aligned with his negative conclusion about the other actor. He thought the guy represented someone who was guilty and treated him as such.

So, for the second take, we told him neither to frown nor to emphasize “NOTHING AS OF YET.” He smiled this time. He also leaned in—nose to nose—and spoke so slowly and deliberately that it came across as a threat. The other actor actually blinked nervously and backed up as if being attacked.

No matter how many times we told him to stop doing something nonverbal and threatening, he’d come up with a new nonverbal cue that implied “you’re an untrustworthy moron” without changing a word from the original script.

Finally, in desperation we told him the other fellow was a good friend who was normally quite reliable and that he was curious as to why he had failed to deliver on his promise. When given this background he delivered the lines perfectly. His new feeling, based on new assumptions, led to new and congruent behavior. Ergo, if you want to repair your nonverbal behavior, alter the conclusion you’ve drawn before you say a word.

This, of course, is what we now teach in Crucial Conversations. As part of the notion “work on me first,” we suggest you inventory the conclusions you’ve drawn about others before you speak to them. If you think others are purposely causing you grief, you’re likely to open your discussion with an accusatory comment. You might even choose tactful words, but your overall demeanor and tone will be accusatory if you’ve already held court and found the other person guilty.

So, when talking with someone who has let you down, start by asking yourself why a reasonable, rational, and decent person would do what he or she just did. Remain curious. Don’t pass judgment before you’ve gathered all the facts. Then, set aside a time to talk in private. Start the conversation with the hint of a smile. You’re not angry; you’re curious. You don’t feel superior; you simply want to surface and discuss the facts. In short, manage your nonverbal behavior by managing your conclusions. See if “fixing your heart” helps to fix your delivery.

Kerry

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is the author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
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About six months ago, as I walked into church I was warmly greeted by my two neighbors, Betsy and Howard Nielson. The two warmly shook my hand, gave me a weekly bulletin, and smiled as they politely moved to the people standing behind me. This charming pair in their late 60s had been appointed to the newly-created position of “greeters.” Each Sunday it would be their job to stand at the chapel door, smile, hand out church bulletins, and make small talk.

By profession, Howard had been a chemistry professor and Betsy a lawyer. Both had been retired for about five years. When I first met the two at a neighborhood gathering I discovered they lived in the Bay Area in the early 70s at the same time I had been stationed there in the Coast Guard. As we shared memories of the area and era, the conversation somehow turned to the marvelous regional theater. I enthusiastically explained that one of the highlights of my stay in California had been a local theater competition I had attended. The theme had been “One, Two, Three” and one of the ten-minute skits that competed was aptly re-titled “One-tooth Ree.” As you’ve probably guessed, it was about a poor fellow named Ree who had but one tooth and the challenges he faced trying to find a girlfriend. The music, lyrics, script, and staging were delightful and I gushed over its creativity.

“One-tooth-Ree!” Howard exclaimed. “Why Betsy wrote the play, the music, and the lyrics. I did the costuming, sets, and staging.” Then the two began singing the theme song as I stood there with my mouth agape. Somehow, after thirty years of moving about the country, I had run into the people who produced my favorite mini-musical of all time. The three of us laughed about the coincidence and I marveled that a chemist and lawyer had crafted such an incredible production. Both were modest in their response and eventually went on to talk about their other surprise talents—the books she had written and the photo contests he had won.

“Actually I’ve written quite a lot,” Betsy enthused, “but over the past few years nobody has asked me about my work.”

From there the conversation turned to the fact that aging, along with its physical challenges, was putting them out to pasture despite the fact that they still wanted to be yoked. It turns out both Betsy and Howard had been (in their own words) “given the bum’s rush” into retirement. And now within their own parish, two vibrant parishioners who had once run the church’s charity drives and led the youth camping programs had been politely released from their volunteer jobs and appointed “greeters.”

“It’s a token job,” Betsy explained with a sad smile. “You can’t exactly fire people at church so you make up some position and move them to that.”

“Not that people don’t need to be greeted,” Howard added. “It’s just that we have so much more to offer.”

Since talking with Betsy and Howard that day, I’ve made it a point to converse with each of the retired people in my environs to learn what it’s been like as they moved into their “golden” years. Some have loved the transition to a life of less stress and more free time, some report a hollow feeling they can’t seem to fill, and all allude to the fact that once you reach a certain age (or look), people don’t exactly view you as a cauldron of wisdom. Friends, family, and neighbors don’t seem to care a whit about the photos you shot back in the old days or the books you wrote back when the earth was still cooling, or for that matter, the advice you might want to proffer today.

What must it be like to be bubbling over with ideas and never asked for your point of view? How does it feel to stand on the sidelines and crave to be sent back in the game? “Put me in coach,” you think to yourself. “I can do it!”

But nobody calls.

At some level I understand why today’s senior citizens aren’t always valued for their years of priceless experience. Centuries ago, when people worked in jobs like saddle maker or silver-bowl master, it took years to learn the craft. Consequently, older people were quite likely to know more about how to complete a job than just about anyone. Two hundred years ago, skilled craftsmen remained rock stars right up until the day they died.

But things have changed. Today’s older generation isn’t going to pass on the wisdom of five generations of haberdashery or the finer points of millinery arts. Nowadays, technology moves so fast that almost no form of expertise remains relevant for very long. For instance, my folks learned how to sell radio advertising space and process black-and-white photos, but those fields have long since been replaced with new technologies. Nobody cares much about them any more.

But that doesn’t mean that today’s more senior and experienced citizens don’t still have a lot to offer. I know this is true because I took my cue from the Nielsons and started making it a point to talk to older people—no longer making small talk—but now making big talk. In church, between meetings, and after exchanging greetings, I ask: “What’s the most interesting thing you learned in your career?” or “What advice do you have for me as a new grandparent?” or “What’s the most important book you ever read?”

From there the discussion always turns lively and interesting. It’s like opening the door to a library. For instance, last week when my neighbor George (a retired geologist) stopped by to take a look at our remodeling project, I took him over to the new granite countertops and asked him to teach me about the stone.

“If I were still teaching Geology 101,” George enthused, “I’d bring my students by your place just to look at this! Examining this stone is like reading an ancient manuscript. The granite you see in the field is covered with dirt and even when it’s exposed it’s hard to examine. But when you slice and polish a massive piece like this, you can peer back into the very formation of the earth. For example, you see this dark brown scar that runs across this slab? The stone had a crack in it and millennia ago magma poured into the void. And you see these tiny marks that look like ancient writing, they’re called ‘glyphs,’ but they’re not made by man, they’re made by nature. It all starts when . . .”

After enjoying several equally enlightening conversations with several other friends and neighbors, I decided to ask Betsy Nielson to share some of her writing with me. She had suggested that nobody asked her about her work anymore, so I asked her. Within hours, Betsy appeared at our front door with a large book in hand. She reverently opened it to a picture of a smiling young man standing at attention in full flight gear. It was her brother Roy and he had just graduated from flight school.

“In this book,” Betsy explained, “I contributed a story about my brother Roy’s flight experience in World War II.”

Then I noticed Betsy cradling a letter in her hands—holding it more like a religious artifact than an epistle.

“It’s a letter Roy sent me,” Betsy said as she fought back a tear. “It starts out, ‘Dear Sis.’”

She then paused to regain her composure.

“Roy was eight years older than me, and kind enough to write his kid sister about once a month. Receiving a letter from him was the highlight of my youth. In this particular letter Roy makes small talk about his daily goings-on and ends by hoping that his flight scheduled for later that day will be successful. He and his crew were hunting down enemy submarines and that was always dangerous.”

“So what happened?” I asked.

“You’ll note the date on the letter.” Betsy answered. “You’re a bit young to know this, but it was the last day of the war.”

“And?”

“And Roy’s plane was shot down. He and his entire crew were lost. My brother and his buddies were among the last soldiers to die—they may have been the last soldiers to lose their lives in the war.”

No wonder Betsy was cradling the letter. It was a poignant and tender piece of history. Tears ran down our cheeks as we discussed Roy’s sacrifice and Betsy’s feelings. It was a cherished moment for me and it had been the result of asking a simple question: “Would you share some of your writings?” I had called Betsy back into the game and both of us were blessed for my having done so.

And what did I do to get Betsy back into the game? How did I open the library door? First, I took the time to talk with an older friend. Second, I traded small talk for big talk. Third, I listened intently as my friend shared a story.

In Betsy’s own words, unlocking untold treasures had been as simple as One-tooth Ree.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kerry Patterson is author of three bestselling books, Influencer, Crucial Conversations, and Crucial Confrontations.
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When I was a boy, only a handful of rich families had access to a television—or the newscasts that came with it. Consequently, the local movie theaters (which our family attended as often as three times a week) showed a newsreel at the beginning of each double feature. These ten-minute news clips updated audiences on everything from sports scores to changes in the war effort.

It was during just such a theater-hosted news broadcast that I first became aware of the Soap Box Derby. According to a newsreel that came on just before the MGM lion roared, boys “from all walks of life” would gather each year in Akron, Ohio and compete for prizes by building and racing a gravity-driven race car. After watching a young man leap triumphantly from his wooden vehicle, whip off his nifty-looking goggles, and claim a cash award, I wanted a soap box car of my very own. I craved one of my own. And why shouldn’t I compete? I certainly qualified. I was a boy. I was from some sort of walk of life. I could be a winner.

Of course, qualifying for the race was one matter, acquiring an actual soap box racer was an entirely different matter. This was the early fifties and our family was hardly flush with such things as wood, wheels, axles, paint, and tools. In fact, I didn’t even own a bike or pair of skates. That meant I couldn’t build a gravity-driven car, as most boys did, by piecing together parts from cast-off vehicles because we never had anything to cast off.

Nevertheless, this was a soap box derby and soap boxes could be found at a junk yard—which was kind of where I lived in the first place. Our humble neighborhood was knee-deep in junk. With a little luck, I would one day be hurling down a northeastern Ohio hillside in a vehicle of my own making. All I had to do was find the right junk and fashion it into my very own derby car.

At first, the task turned out to be fairly easy. Previous neighbors had built a tree house in the woods behind our house and since it had long ago fallen into disrepair I tore down the eyesore and scrounged a few two-by-fours to make up my chassis. Next, I pulled out and straightened old nails I found in boards left around empty lots. It only took me a couple of days to marry nails and lumber into a frame and when I eventually found an old soap box and secured it onto the frame; I had the makings of a race car.

But wheels were going to be a problem. The dumps I visited had been stripped of anything as valuable as wheels. Eventually, I begged four odd-sized wagon wheels from four different friends and ran a large nail through the center of each—the wheels, that is, not the friends. Then I hammered the nails into the end of the former tree-house two-by-fours that now crisscrossed the chassis. The only problem was that one of the two-by-four ends contained a huge knot so I couldn’t hammer the nail into it. Try as I might, it just bent the nail. I eventually borrowed a bigger hammer but that did nothing but take a large chunk out of the lumber. So there my potential award-winning vehicle sat in our basement—a complete soap box car—minus one wheel.

For the next few weeks, I begged my dad to help me nail in that last wheel. But he never got around to it. His job at the plant was physically taxing, it was a hot summer, and he just didn’t have any energy left over for nailing together a soap box derby car. “I’ll get to it later,” he’d say each day as he slowly climbed the stairs from our basement garage.

But Dad didn’t get to it later. My race car sat in our basement completely finished—minus one wheel. When I came home from school each day I’d walk by my three-wheeled contrivance and be reminded that we were poor, Dad wasn’t exactly a handy man, I didn’t finish the job I had started (something my mom was quick to point out), and I’d never get to feel the wind rushing through my hair.

I protected my homely little vehicle until the next spring when the rains subsided and I hoped I’d have another chance to race in the derby. But a boy can only hold onto a newsreel vision for so long. So, one day, when my older brother Bill needed a piece of rope, he took it off the steering mechanism of my car, and I didn’t even put up a fuss. I had let go of my dream. A couple weeks later, I detached the wooden soap box to use as a control module on the stove-pipe “rocket ship” I was now making in the back yard. Then, I stripped away the remaining lumber to be used as fuel for the rocket ship’s inaugural flight. Eventually, all that remained of my dream car was four wheels—bitter reminders of a job never finished.

I hadn’t thought of this particular disappointment in decades. But last week, I was reminded of that soap box derby car while standing on our bathroom scale and seeing a number I hadn’t tipped since I was in my mid 30s (I’d lost the equivalent of an nine-year-old boy). You see, I had been trying to shed weight for more than twenty years, but had never made any progress. Like most people attempting to lose weight, I’d experience some success with various diets, but then regain the weight and put my health at further risk.

Eventually, after yo-yoing for decades, I settled on the notion that if I was going to make heroic efforts to lose weight by suffering all the while, I’d never be able to keep it up. So I decided to find healthier, less sugary and fatty foods that I actually enjoyed eating. Next, I learned how to eat smaller, less caloric meals to avoid being hungry so often. Then I started exercising by engaging in activities I actually enjoyed. Next came weighing myself daily followed by learning which restaurants carried healthy food I liked, and so forth. As the months rolled on, board by board I cobbled together my very own soap box diet plan. And like the original homemade vehicle from my youth, my plan remained incomplete and unsuccessful for quite a long time.

Then one day, I decided to seek help from a trainer who taught me correct exercise techniques and offered me constant encouragement. Soon I was shedding pounds. In fact, I’m now halfway to my goal (eventually, I need to lose the equivalent of a twelve-year-old).

Why was I finally successful after so many failures? It would be easy to credit the trainer. It would also be wrong. Every sensible thing I had done up until that point was an important part of my success. I really did have to find healthy foods I like, learn how to navigate restaurants, calculate my daily caloric intake, and so forth.

It turns out that, as with my race-car building, when it came to my health goals, I had done most of what I needed to do, but hadn’t quite reached critical mass. The tactics I had employed hadn’t been wrong, they just hadn’t been enough. As was the case with my derby car, I had been one wheel short of success. In my case, including one more change strategy—finding a trainer—put me over the top. But it was the trainer, plus everything else I had already done, that ultimately led to my success.

Now I’m left wondering how many other times in my life have I completed most of what I needed to do in order to succeed, but failed to achieve my objective for lack of one more technique or change strategy. How many times have I been one wheel short? The thought of putting in 90 percent of the work only to enjoy—not 90 percent but precious little of the benefits—gave me the willies.

I know from recent research conducted at VitalSmarts that when people use four or more change strategies when trying to reach a goal, they are four times more likely to succeed than those who use three or fewer. At the corporate level, the same research team learned that when leaders move from implementing just a couple of influence techniques to using four or more, they increase their chances of success by a factor of ten. This encouraging data certainly supports the idea that when you’re faced with challenging and persistent problems, you need to add to and adjust your plans until you eventually break through to success.

So, today I offer a message of hope. If you’ve tried to solve a problem in your personal life or within your company but have come up short, maybe you’re closer than you think. Maybe you’re about to break through to success. Look at your latest barrier, add one more influence strategy to your current plan and see what happens. Chances are you’re just one wheel away from the feeling the wind in your hair.