Cycle I: Coming on Strong
The Hidden Voice
Record ~ Kawaii · 20 (v1.00)
THE HOUSE OF ZAN — Zan
♡ chelmico — Easy Breezy
OPENING: 見てもらうだけでいい？
You want credentials?
Fine.
Here’s my résumé.
Excellent taste.
Exceptional judgment.
Remarkable observational abilities.
A natural talent for identifying problems other people haven’t noticed.
And an impressive capacity for explaining precisely what should be done about them.
You’re welcome.
Oh.
You wanted professional credentials?
How demanding.
(￣▽￣;)
Apparently, announcing that I’m exceptionally qualified isn’t enough anymore.
Everybody wants evidence.
Examples.
Results.
Something that demonstrates whether I actually know what I’m talking about.
Honestly!
Whatever happened to trusting a confident woman with an excellent vocabulary?
…
No?
Very well.
Let’s conduct a demonstration.
I enjoy people who make things.
Music.
Art.
Little shops.
Interesting projects.
Unusual collections.
And I particularly enjoy somebody who has created something wonderful but hasn’t figured out how to share it with the people who might appreciate it.
Not because I enjoy watching people struggle.
Goodness, no.
But there’s something exciting about recognizing a possibility that somebody else hasn’t quite noticed.
Especially when I can see what they might do about it.
Which happens rather often.
Now, imagine you’ve created something lovely.
Let’s say you make miniature paper planets.
Beautiful little models of Jupiter.
Saturn.
Neptune.
Mars.
Perhaps Pluto.
I know its classification has changed, but we needn’t make the poor thing feel unwelcome.
You arrange them carefully.
Take wonderful photographs.
Choose an exciting name.
Create a little sign.
And announce your magnificent planetary collection to the world.
But then you tell me nobody is particularly interested.
How unfortunate.
So you decide the problem must be that people haven’t noticed you.
You need more attention!
More photographs!
More announcements!
Perhaps an even bigger sign!
A sign so spectacular that somebody on Mars could see it.
…
Well.
I admire your ambition.
But before we begin constructing an interplanetary advertising campaign, may I ask something?
Who are these planets for?
Collectors?
People who enjoy astronomy?
Someone looking for an unusual gift?
People decorating their desks?
People who simply think tiny things are adorable?
Because those aren’t necessarily the same audience.
And what makes your little planets worth choosing?
Are they handmade?
Particularly detailed?
Customizable?
Can somebody choose their favorite planet?
What happens if they want the entire solar system?
Do you offer a set?
You should offer a set.
Actually, wait.
I haven’t seen your prices.
How much does each planet cost to make?
How long does it take?
What about packaging?
Shipping?
The little boxes?
The photographs?
All the time you’ve spent creating something worth sharing?
Have you considered any of that?
…
Oh.
You haven’t.
Well!
Now we’re getting somewhere.
I was beginning to worry we’d spend the entire afternoon discussing signs.
And I have very strong opinions about signs.
For example, I don’t think anybody should use six different typefaces to advertise a single paper planet.
What an extraordinary amount of typographic confusion.
Choose one.
Perhaps two.
If you’re feeling adventurous.
But please.
Have mercy on my eyes.
(눈_눈)
Anyway.
Perhaps your problem isn’t that nobody can see what you’re making.
Perhaps people can see it perfectly well.
They simply don’t understand why they might want it.
Or what they’re supposed to do next.
Now, suppose we make a few adjustments.
We clarify what you’re offering.
Show how the planets look on a desk.
Explain which details make them special.
Perhaps create that magnificent solar-system set.
I’m becoming quite attached to that idea.
We make the prices easy to find.
We explain how somebody can place an order.
And we stop assuming that every person who enjoys a photograph wants to purchase what appears in it.
Then we pay attention.
Do people ask questions?
Do they understand what they’re buying?
Which planets interest them?
Do they purchase anything?
And if they do, was the time you spent making it worthwhile?
You can create something beautiful.
Attract attention.
Receive enthusiastic compliments.
Become rather popular.
And still discover that you’ve spent considerably more than you’ve earned.
How dreadful.
A beautiful, financially disastrous collection of paper planets.
Very impressive.
Terribly inconvenient.
Especially if your goal was to make enough money to continue creating them.
Now, perhaps money isn’t your goal.
That’s fine.
Maybe you simply enjoy making things.
Perhaps sharing them is enough.
Perhaps you want an audience but have no interest in customers.
Wonderful!
Then we shouldn’t turn your lovely hobby into a complicated business simply because somebody has announced that every creative activity needs a revenue strategy.
That somebody sounds exhausting.
And I say that as a person capable of being extraordinarily exhausting.
But if you tell me you want to earn something from your work?
Something that supports the time and effort you put into it?
Then I think we should take that ambition seriously.
Let’s examine what you’re doing.
I can’t promise it will work.
Now, imagine your adjustments begin working.
People discover your collection.
Some even purchase a planet.
Congratulations!
You’re becoming a successful interplanetary merchant.
Very exciting.
(๑•̀ㅂ•́)و✧
But don’t celebrate so enthusiastically that you forget what happened.
Which photographs helped people understand the work?
Which questions kept appearing?
Did somebody request something you hadn’t considered?
Did your packaging survive the journey?
Would somebody recommend your work?
Could you make another batch without exhausting yourself?
And are you enjoying any of this?
Because if you spend every waking moment creating tiny Saturns until you can no longer stand the sight of a ring, we’ve developed another problem.
A rather tragic one.
Saturn deserves better.
So do you.
Perhaps the solution is changing your prices.
Perhaps it’s making fewer designs.
Perhaps you need more efficient packaging.
Perhaps there’s a particular audience who appreciates your work more than everybody else.
Or perhaps you should stop doing something that consumes enormous amounts of time without producing anything worthwhile.
I don’t know yet.
That’s why we’re examining the situation.
I’m not going to announce a magnificent solution before I’ve bothered to understand the problem.
I’m a professional.
…
Well.
For the purposes of this demonstration.
Now, there’s another thing I find amusing about attention.
People become terribly excited when everybody is talking about something.
It must be important!
It must be successful!
It must be extraordinary!
Not necessarily.
Sometimes everybody is talking because somebody created something wonderful.
Sometimes they’re talking because somebody made an extraordinary mistake.
And sometimes?
Well.
Suppose we photograph your miniature Mars beside a Mars bar.
Clever, yes?
The little planet.
The chocolate.
The matching names.
Excellent composition!
Then the photograph becomes popular.
Wonderful!
Except everybody keeps asking where to buy the chocolate.
Nobody wants to know where to buy your planet.
…
I see.
Perhaps our advertising has attracted the wrong audience.
How exciting for the chocolate!
(￣▽￣;)
And that’s the trouble with mistaking attention for achievement.
Being noticed doesn’t necessarily mean anybody understands what you’re offering.
It certainly doesn’t guarantee that they’ll remember it for the right reasons.
But if I were helping somebody build something they actually cared about, I’d rather understand what was happening beneath the attention.
Who was interested?
Why?
What were they doing afterward?
Was anything lasting?
Or was everybody simply looking because somebody else had told them to look?
I don’t think every idea deserves encouragement.
…
Oh!
Don’t look so surprised.
I can be supportive.
I can deliver magnificent compliments.
But if somebody asks for my opinion, I don’t believe I’m helping them by declaring everything wonderful when I can see an obvious problem.
Sometimes the most useful thing I can say is—
No.
Not like that.
Try again.
Perhaps the price doesn’t make sense.
Perhaps the audience isn’t interested.
Perhaps the idea needs more work.
Perhaps the entire project is trying to accomplish seventeen things when it would be better at three.
I realize that isn’t necessarily what somebody wants to hear.
They might prefer praise.
A little encouragement.
Somebody telling them that success is inevitable.
How lovely.
How reassuring.
How completely unhelpful if the problem is still sitting there.
I would rather offer something useful.
Although I do enjoy being appreciated afterward.
That’s perfectly reasonable.
If I’ve just identified the problem that’s been keeping your entire collection from reaching its intended audience, I think a little appreciation would be appropriate.
Perhaps a compliment.
One of those miniature planets.
…
Jupiter.
Obviously.
Something with presence.
Or perhaps Saturn.
Those rings are magnificent.
We can discuss the details later.
Suppose you return after trying something I’ve suggested.
You’ve changed the presentation.
Tested a price.
Created a new set.
Discovered that people aren’t responding the way either of us expected.
Oh!
Tell me.
I want to know.
Now we have more information.
Perhaps you noticed a possibility I overlooked.
…
What?
It happens.
Occasionally.
Under unusual circumstances.
And I can be very gracious about it.
Extremely gracious.
After an appropriate period of private irritation.
(¬_¬)
But I don’t mind discovering that an idea needs improving.
That’s part of what makes working on something interesting.
We can adjust.
Try something else.
Or decide the whole thing isn’t worth pursuing.
Not every possibility needs to become a lifelong commitment.
And not every idea deserves additional time simply because somebody has already spent a great deal of time on it.
That can be a difficult thing to admit.
Especially when you’ve made something you love.
But I’d rather see somebody understand what they’re doing than continue making the same mistake simply because stopping would feel embarrassing.
I enjoy recognizing potential.
Not simply telling somebody they’re wonderful.
I like finding the possibility inside what they’re actually doing.
The small adjustment that changes how something is understood.
The question nobody has asked.
The opportunity somebody has overlooked.
The reason a project might be worth continuing.
Or the reason it might not.
And occasionally I become so enthusiastic about somebody else’s idea that I start making suggestions before they’ve finished explaining it.
An unfortunate habit.
For them.
Possibly for me.
But I do try to listen.
Especially when the person has something worthwhile to say.
Now, imagine somebody arrives with a promising project.
They’ve already begun.
They’ve tried things.
Made mistakes.
Learned something.
They’re still interested.
And they’re looking for another perspective.
Now you have my attention.
That’s different from somebody arriving with nothing but an enormous promise.
I’m going to be successful!
Wonderful.
At what?
Something amazing!
How specific.
I just need somebody to show me how!
Well.
What have you already tried?
…
Nothing?
Oh, dear.
I think we’re going to need a longer conversation.
And possibly some tea.
But I’m not necessarily volunteering to provide it.
I can be generous with my attention.
Sometimes a problem becomes so interesting that I forget I was supposed to be doing something else.
I’ll make suggestions.
Ask questions.
Consider possibilities.
Become thoroughly absorbed.
And suddenly an entire afternoon has disappeared.
How inconvenient.
For my schedule.
Rather wonderful for the person receiving the attention.
But that doesn’t mean I’m required to become everybody’s personal advisor.
My time has value.
So does theirs.
And if I’m going to become involved in something, I’d prefer to know that the person who actually owns the project wants to participate.
I can’t manufacture somebody else’s ambition.
I can recognize it.
Encourage it.
Challenge it.
Perhaps help somebody find a better direction.
But they still have to decide what they want to accomplish.
And do something about it.
What a demanding arrangement.
Everybody having responsibilities!
Outrageous!
Still, I like watching somebody recognize what they could make.
Especially when a question I’ve asked turns out to be useful.
And if I become particularly enthusiastic?
Well.
I might even announce that I’m a queen-maker.
Yes.
A queen-maker!
(✧ω✧)
What an excellent title.
Very impressive.
I should have a little card.
Possibly embossed.
A tasteful crown.
Nothing excessive.
Although I do enjoy excessive things.
But I wouldn’t award myself that title merely because somebody listened to my advice.
They’d have to accomplish something.
Otherwise, what exactly have I made?
An enthusiastic conversation?
I can manage those without a crown.
Believe me.
So, if I ever offer to help somebody develop an idea, understand something.
I’m not offering because I expect them to admire me.
Although admiration is welcome.
I’m offering because I can see a possibility worth exploring.
And I’d like to find out whether it’s actually there.
Of course, I could be wrong.
That possibility exists.
Very occasionally.
But I’m quite comfortable examining the evidence.
Provided somebody has brought some.
Which brings us to you.
What are you making?
What have you already tried?
Where are you stuck?
What do you want it to become?
And what makes you think I’m the person who should be helping?
Oh!
Don’t look so surprised.
That’s an important question.
I’m not the right person for everything.
Different people have different strengths.
And there’s no point pretending otherwise simply because somebody has offered me a flattering title.
Although we should absolutely keep queen-maker.
It’s magnificent.
But if you’ve got something interesting?
Something you’ve actually begun?
Something you care enough about to improve?
Show me.
Let me see what you’re doing.
What people respond to.
What you’ve learned.
What hasn’t worked.
Then tell me what you actually want to accomplish.
Perhaps I’ll recognize something useful.
Perhaps I’ll have a suggestion.
Perhaps I’ll become so interested that you’ll have considerable difficulty making me stop talking.
That last one is a genuine possibility.
I consider it a professional hazard.
But I’m curious.
Especially when somebody has done the work and simply needs another pair of eyes.
A particularly discerning pair.
An exceptionally talented pair.
A pair belonging to somebody whose judgment is—
…
Oh, don’t give me that look.
You asked for credentials.
I gave you credentials.
Now.
Let’s see what you’ve got.
Perhaps there’s something extraordinary right in front of us.
Or perhaps there’s a problem so obvious that we’ll both wonder how anybody missed it.
Either way—
I prefer to see the numbers first.
Then we’ll discuss the possibilities.
After all…
I would have thought some of this would be visible to the naked eye.
ENDING: Is being seen enough?