Lodi WI & Lake Wisconsin Area News & Information | Local Scribes

Local Scribes

This page is proudly sponsored by:

Poems • Short Stories•Book Reviews

A collection of creative writings from Lodi Area Writers

Poems

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Without Zoloft

It comes on slowly.. the changes..
Hello emotions.
Crying, not just quietly, but body shaking open crying to “Lily White”, Cat Stevens, you haven’t heard in 37 years..
Brain is in overload, excited, creative, what’s that? Another new idea? What to do with it, what to do with it?…
Moving faster, thinking faster, sometimes too fast.
Laughing. OMG. Laughing out loud until there’s tears.
Hot flashes back. Minor inconvenience. Deal with it.
More energy.

Snarky. Cranky, snappy. Ready to display anger, feelings.
Facial expressions. Muscles moving facial expressions.
Extreme Happiness. Like it has been forgotten.
Memory. Sharpness back. Quickness intact.
Extreme Sadness.. new sensation. Crying at thoughts but remembering the feeling of release after a good cry.. and understanding that I really do care.

I’m back.
I’m back!
You may not like me any more, but I’m back. Get use to it.

by Toni Martin

A Fishing Poem

Somedays I don’t feel like fishing with Legends,

But with just some plain folk
with a stick in hand
and a little line
tied on the stick will do.

A little worm on a hook
at the end of that line
tied to the stick
held on to by just plain folk like me.

And with a tug tug
I feel that bluegill
that just sucked in that worm
tied on the hook
at the end of that line
tied to the stick
held on to by just plain folk like me.

With no fancy shirt
or decaled hat
or glitter on my frying pan
I cook and crunch on those bluegill fillets
that once lived to slurp
the worm on the hook
attached to the line
tied to the stick
held by just plain folk like me.

By Gary N-ski

The Bursar’s Office

They’ really quite efficient,
At finding those who owe,
And getting them to pay up,
Despite their tales of woe.

They’ll lecture and they’ll chastise,
They’ll wheedle and cajole,
And if you still don’t pay up,
Your transcripts they’ll withhold.

Yet should that fail to move you,
To tearing out your hair,
Your credit they will ruin,
And drive you to despair.

For twelve long years its been thus,
I’ve lost a losing fight,
But now, at last, the end is near,
Goodbye, *Miss J, Goodnight!

by Carole Roche

*Jennifer Smithson, Bursar’s office

“Clogged”

It’s the feeling you get
when you realize
that after spending two hours
struggling
with a clogged shower drain,
plunging,
dumping chemicals,
metaphorically and physically
beating your head
against the bathroom wall,
and when you think
you’ve discovered the solution,
you look at the mess you’ve created
and wonder
if you have indeed come across
the root of the problem
or if you just weren’t bright enough
to notice
whether or not the drain plug was open…

and you thank God profusely
for the fact you didn’t break down
and make a fool of yourself
by calling a plumber
just so he could charge you
a million dollars an hour
to laugh at you
and turn your fiasco
into a funny story
that he and his plumber buddies
would bring up
at every damned plumber get-together
until you would become a legend
handed down to every generation
for
all
plumber
eternity.

by Jon Wilson

Short Stories

Foibles of Finney -4

“A Dog’s Best Friend”
By Lisa Fichter

I mentioned her earlier, Camille The Cat. She had become very special to me in the first year of my life. I considered her one of my best friends although I’m not sure the feeling was always mutual. You see, I grew to be around 50 lbs that first year and sometimes I didn’t know my own strength. Camille was an old cat that much I knew. The Woman had adopted her from the Humane Society several years before I came to live with them and she was never sure how old Camille was. The Woman said of Camille that she was a good girl who never, ever, caused anyone any trouble. I hated to admit it but I had to agree.

Camille let me chase her around the house and roll her over with my snout at will. She let me eat her food sometimes and only rarely would she swipe me across the nose with her clawless paw. When I curled up on the big chair she would lie behind me on the back. It was comforting to have her near. I liked to be close her and I suspect that she felt the same.

Me and my Camille.

One day I noticed that Camille wasn’t looking too well. I think I knew even before The Woman did that Camille was very ill. Camille went away for a few days to visit a doctor and I was very sad. I couldn’t even eat. I guess I hadn’t realized how much I liked her soft, round body, curled up next to me and nuzzling me with her gentle way. When she came home, I was ecstatic to see both her and The Woman but something had changed. The Woman, who wore a sad and concerned face, no longer allowed me to spend time with Camille. She wouldn’t let me chase her around the house or roll her around the floor with my snout. Instead she kept her in a quiet, private room where she checked on her frequently and gave shots of medicine to make her well. This was very challenging for me, indeed. Did The Woman really believe that she could keep me from my friend if I wanted to see her? Was she aware that I had long since mastered the art of turning a doorknob to open a door that stood in my way? Apparently, she didn’t believe I could or would open that door that stood between me and my Camille. So, I used every ounce of restraint that I could muster and I waited. I waited until The Woman went to the basement to do laundry. Then, I made my move to see my best buddy Camille, one more time.

When I entered the room the door slammed against the wall with a bang and Camille struggled to lift her head off of her bedding. I ran to her bedside and gave her a good nuzzle with my cold wet nose, but it didn’t seem to please her. Her eyes were sick. I had heard The Woman talking on the phone, saying something about “renal failure”, whatever that meant. All I knew was that my best friend was not herself and there was nothing I could do about it. My usual antics didn’t even get a reaction from her. Even with my credentials as Royal Dog of Hungary, I was powerless to help my dear friend.

Suddenly, I heard the sound of thundering footsteps running up the basement stairs. The Woman appeared in the doorway. I had my paw on Camille’s side and was bidding her my last farewell, when the angry Woman dragged me from the room. “Bad Dog!” she said with a frantic tone I had never heard before. “Dog”…indeed! But I didn’t care. My Camille was too important to me. I just had to see her. That night, The Woman slept on the floor next to Camille and I slept in the down-filled bed, as usual. The next day, The Woman checked on Camille and began to cry. Overnight, Camille had left us and gone to heaven. I was stricken with grief and so was the poor Woman. I did my best to comfort her and not make too many demands.

In time I was glad to know Camille’s pain was gone. She was safe from being left alone and she was protected from campfires and all of the other unpleasant things in this world. I can’t be sure if my final visit with Camille did any good or if it may have helped speed her passing, but I think she knew that I was her true friend…. then and always.

Foibles of Finney – pt. 3 of 5

“Rollin’ on the River”
By Lisa Fichter

Camping is always an adventure for us, but the first trip had some very memorable moments. We arrived late in the afternoon, after having spent several hours waiting at the mechanic’s office. Earlier in the day, I had gone on a very short joy ride in The Woman’s car and ended up crashing the car into the sign at the mini mall in Baraboo. As a result of the great car crashing incident, certain things needed to be fixed to make things legal for us to drive. So, we got to our campsite a little later than planned but there was still plenty of daylight left for at least one good adventure.

Me and my “Buds” camping on the Wisconsin River.

When we got to the campsite, which was up river, near Wisconsin Dells, our friends had not yet arrived. So, we quickly set up camp and headed down to the water to cool off. The Woman kept telling me to stay out of the water which I found to be a ridiculous request. She said the river was too fast, but I couldn’t imagine an old river could be faster than the great Vizsla Extraordinaire! So, with a long, graceful leap, I took off into the water and immediately got caught in a strong current which started pulling me down river. The woman yelled and screamed and told me to “swim to the shore”, but her voice was getting farther and farther away. It was rather fun I thought, I didn’t even need to paddle and look how fast I was going So, The Woman jumped into the river after me and started swimming frantically toward me. It seemed like the river carried us a long way before The woman grabbed onto my collar and pulled me into her. The Woman is a very strong swimmer and she took me to the safe, solid shoreline. She fussed over me to no end. I wasn’t sure what all the excitement was about, but I did have to agree with her when she thanked God I was alive!

It was a wonderful adventure floating downriver together. We were a lot like Tom and Huck. The only problem was, we were quite far from our campsite now and we had to walk back up the shoreline, over huge tangles of branches and stumps. It was a piece of cake for me, but it didn’t please The Woman at all. She fell and cut her leg, which caused her to yell some very loud words I had not heard before.

By the time we got back to the campsite, our friends where already there. We told them our story of my first driving experience, earlier in the day, followed by my swim down river and everyone laughed heartily about it. Even The Woman, who was obviously perturbed with me, found a way to laugh about it. It was a very good time for all, until the sun began to set. It was then that I realized one of my greatest fears in life…a campfire. No one had prepared me for the bone clattering fear that would consume me when nighttime fell on a campout. No one braced me for the loud pops and crackles that spewed from the burning pit, or the ultra bright sparks that shot into the midnight sky. Why hadn’t someone told me about this horrible tradition of camping? Had I known about this terrifying ritual I would have certainly opted for my 600 thread-count sheets and my down-filled, air conditioned comfort of home.

It was a long first night of camping, but to my extreme happiness, the campfire was out in the morning and so began the rest of the camping trip which was pure heaven, at least until nighttime came again…..

Foibles of Finney – pt. 2 of 5

“The Driving Need to Go Camping”
By Lisa Fichter

The Woman was really growing on me. She treated me so kindly and submitted to most of my demands. It was getting so I could hardly stand to see her leave. Why did she go anyway? Certainly she was honored with my royal presence. I’d become so handsome, too. Wasn’t that enough for her?

Usually The Woman took me everywhere with her. Even after I inadvertently tore all of the fabric off of the ceiling of her car, she STILL took me along. Then, after I jumped out of the window of our car and in through the window of a complete strangers car while sitting at a stoplight, she forgave me again. I honestly didn’t think I would live that one down…but I did! I believed The Woman loved me. So much, it seems, I could get away with just about anything.

We had lots of fun, The Woman and I. We went to visit people, we went camping and we did a LOT of swimming. I should mention that The Woman had some obsessions of her own. She was a water NUT! The second day I was in Wisconsin she made me swim in Lake Wisconsin. It was scary and a little cold but I could tell, even then, that this swimming thing had some potential. It turns out I am a natural born athlete. I was not surprised considering my noble bloodline.

My life seemed to be a long series of events that either made The Woman laugh or cry. One day, there was an unfortunate incident that caused a great deal of excitement. The Woman was going camping and decided to take me along. So, she finished work, came home to pick me up and pack the car and we were on our way! However, she had one last stop to make for her job before we escaped to the north woods. I admit I was typically over-anxious about her leaving me alone. And unfortunately, as I jumped back and forth from the front to the back seat, I got my leash wrapped around the gear shift. In my excitement I moved that gear shift and slowly began rolling backwards as I sat in the driver’s seat of the car. I could see the car was picking up speed and heading toward a very busy, four lane highway, but I was so shocked I didn’t know how to react. I looked forward to see The Woman running across the huge parking lot toward me screaming my name. “Finney! Finney!”. My goodness her face was red! And I’d never seen her run so fast! Didn’t she know it was just an accident?!

Do I look like the sort of guy who would crash your car into a sign on purpose?!

By the time she reached the car, it was already rolling toward the traffic at a good clip. She tried holding the car back by holding onto the open window frame, but it was too late. The car was far too heavy to control. Fortunately, The Woman, was able to reach in through the open window and move the steering wheel just enough to force the car to back into a large, 20ft high, concrete piling with a sign upon it. The car hit the sign post with a big bang and the sound of things shattering. The force of the car hitting the piling sent me flying into the dash of the car and it hurt a little! People came running from the stores to see what had happened. Or, maybe they just wanted a glimpse of the great Hungarian Viszla whom they’d heard was in the vicinity. I can’t be sure. There was broken plastic and glass everywhere. The Woman just stood there with the most curious, surprised look on her face. She just held her hands over her face and kept repeating…”Oh, my Goodness”. Honestly, I thought it was quite humorous. What a commotion over some broken glass and such! All that I could say about the whole sordid incident is “thank goodness I was safe”. That is, after all, what really matters, right? The extensive damage to The Woman’s car and the damage to the business owner’s sign are trivial at best. The Royal Dog of Hungary made it through the whole unpleasant incident without a scratch.

After the police report and a stop at the mechanic, The Woman and I went on our first camping trip together and all was right with the world.

Foibles of Finney – part 1 of 5

The Long Journey to Wisconsin
By Lisa Fichter

It’s not easy having royalty pulsing through your veins. It creates a situation whereby one can be easily misunderstood. Thus begins the story of my life, the long series of misadventures of a boy from central Iowa with roots to the Royal Throne of Hungary.

I was born on a small farm in the center of corn fields as far as the eye could see. Life was good and simple in that place; play, eat, sleep, repeat. From the beginning I had a feeling about myself. I knew that I was extraordinary and that people should treat me as such. My parents were the proud and dignified sorts and they taught me to hold my head high because, as they told me, I was of “regal stock”!
One day, “The Woman” came into my life and things took a drastic change. As I drove away from the old farm that July afternoon, for the last time, I promised my mother and father, I would never forget them or the honor I was responsible for upholding to our motherland and her crown.
The journey from Iowa to Wisconsin was long. I must admit I cried the entire way. I know…I was neither, dignified nor masculine, but I was so very young then. Being of royal decent can make you a little more “sensitive” than normal. This is, I believe, one of the main reasons I am so often misunderstood. My “sensitivity” in some situations may be deemed as “inappropriate” by many. To me, it’s the “royal way”. Hissy-fits are the norm in my family. It’s basically how we express ourselves. What’s more, demanding, destructive, behavior runs rampant throughout my family history. What some people call annoying…we refer to as “joyful” and “jubilant”. What some may call “crazy” we label “enthusiastic”. It’s really just semantics. At any rate, I was proud of my superior lineage and people would just have to get used to it.
Once I arrived at my new home in Wisconsin, tensions were high. The trip had been long and the hours of riding with a crying boy had worn The Woman I was traveling with to a frazzle. Quite frankly, she was a mess. Still, she did her best to make me comfortable in my new home. However, things just weren’t up to my discerning standards. First of all, there was a creature in the house. A furry, purring creature, that I’d only briefly seen the likes of running across the field at the old farm in Iowa. At first I was innately revolted by her but in time I developed a cordial respect for her. Camille, the cat, was her name. But she wasn’t the half of it. There were, of course, the deplorable sleeping conditions. A majestic specimen such as I…sleep on the floor??? I think not.
So, the first night was horrible. I cried and wailed the whole night long. Oh, how I missed my mother and my family. I thought I would die. The Woman made me sleep in a laundry basket full of fluffy stuff , of all things! But as the morning sun came up, The Woman scooped me up and took me to the warm, soft comfort of her fluffy down-filled bed. She stroked my head and told me she loved me and it was then that I knew I was home. My head on the super-soft pillow with the 600 thread-count pillow cases, air conditioned comfort, sweet nothings being whispered in my ear…this was the royal treatment and the standard with which I would hold all other days in time.
In case you haven’t already surmised, I suppose it’s time I tell you, although it really is just a minor technicality, that I am, in fact, a dog. Yes, I am of the canine variety, although some may find it hard to believe. My name is Finney Fergus. I am a Vizsla, the Royal Dog of Hungary and I am special.

Finney Fergus, Hungarian Royalty

Stench

by Jon Wilson

I don’t know if it was juice or jam, but even the purple stain clinging to the back of her pants kept me intrigued, knowing, as I followed her into the coffee shop, that she was too involved with more important thoughts to notice and address such triviality. She held an air of confidence about her, and it wasn’t rooted in the fact that she was a stunningly attractive woman. No, she was confident for a different reason, and I was hoping to uncover this mystery as we sauntered alongside the dark booths toward the front counter. The booths in this particular establishment were made of rich, heavy oak and built with high backs and deep seats. A couple on a date could easily enjoy privacy amongst other patrons of caffeinated fare. And privacy was of utmost importance if I were to make a lasting first impression during this monumental rendezvous. I say that this occasion was monumental for the simple fact that my going on a date at all was a reason to celebrate.

After ordering our drinks, we slipped into a corner booth near the exit to escape all distraction. I was intent on learning her, and was organizing my thoughts to impress her. We talked of coffee and tea: hazelnut latte with almond biscotti and light chamomile sweetened with honey. Then we discussed music and art: Beatles versus Stones, Copland and Coltraine, Degas and Kandinsky. Our conversation drifted and we rambled and chuckled, and we laughed and laughed some more. My head was nodding and my arms were waving. My anecdotes, both clever and amusing, kept her entranced as I was definitely in fine form. Well, at least I was absolutely impressing myself. But then, just as I had given her the floor to try her hand at making me grin, I could smell… I could smell… something… something so hideous and foul my eyes began to water and the hair on my neck stood erect. I could feel my fingernails curling, and I swear that while I held my impervious smile, my teeth began to yellow and melt. An entity of pungent rank enveloped me and flattened my hair.

Now, being the gentle person that I am and one to avoid a potentially embarrassing situation with persistence, I restrained a choking cough and reached for an aromatic solace in my coffee. I breathed in the majestic perfume of hazelnut and espresso and closed my eyes praying that the odor this woman had produced was either a strange hypnotic aphrodisiac or an extremely potent therapeutic muscle relaxant. At this point I was no longer interested in her comments due to the overwhelming diversion that had presented itself and I found myself whispering a prayer that God would either lift the smell or exchange the ownership of it to me so I could accept responsibility and regain the respect I had had for her originally. For, as all men believe, women do not emit any odor aside from cinnamon, vanilla and lilacs until the day after they are married. Then, for some reason, their fragrance becomes altered to mimic that of a real human being by their newly found ability to be free and open with their partner as he had so willingly accepted the terms of “better or worse.”

Now, after what seemed like an hour of rolling and caressing them behind my eyelids, I reopened my eyes, slowly and methodically one at a time and noticed that she was rambling on, oblivious to the still existent cloud of wicked exhaust that seemed to now be constricting my lungs in an attempt to asphyxiate me. Through squinted eyes I quickly and stealthily scanned the building for any person that could possibly be the keeper of the smell other than the current suspect. Unfortunately, the damned booths that I loved so much had betrayed me and served as pods, which concealed the occupants such that the only visible evidence to support their existence was that of waving arms and crossed legs. There was no way I could catch a glimpse of someone smirking or grimacing at the scent of Hades wafting from below them proving their involvement in this indecent incident.

She continued to talk and I continued to hold a painful smile through gritted teeth. I must have looked like I was in quite a bit of discomfort, as she finally stopped and inquired about the anguish that was leaking out of the pores of my skin. “Are you feeling okay? You don’t look so good.”

With a labored breath I replied, “Um.” I was reduced to “Um.” I muscled up enough strength to articulate one syllable generated from two letters.

She paused for a moment and stared at me before once again questioning my condition. “You look like you are starting to cry. I am so sorry. Did my story bring tears to your eyes? That is so sweet.” She even tilted her head to the side and gave me a sympathetic grin and a long drawn out “Awwwww.”

Indeed she was right. Something about her had brought tears to my eyes. Not truly knowing what her story had been, I just nodded my head in agreement and looked down toward the table. My only guess is that her tale of woe was one of an heroic battle with Irritable Bowel Syndrome that after years of gastrointestinal freedom had only recently come out of remission and returned with a deliberate vengeance that was now wreaking havoc on anyone that came near her. Good Lord forgive me, but this person was not right. She smelled horrible and she thought I was crying about her dead cat or something. This situation had become extremely uncomfortable and I needed to be out of it.

I felt her touch my head as I held my face in my hands hoping to mask the rabid air surrounding me and create a pocket of freshness to breathe from within my shirt. She patted me and said, “Maybe you should go the restroom and splash some water on your face. It will help you regain your composure. I am so sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have opened up so much to you on our first date. I didn’t realize you were so in touch with your emotions. I am truly sorry.”

I realized that this was the out for which I was searching and I awkwardly, while trying not to look too anxious, stood erect and gazed at her with my now bloodshot eyes. I placed one hand atop of her hands and the other over my mouth, as I was still not able to speak, and expressed with my head and face that I would return when I had collected myself and was able to function properly. It was either that expression that I conveyed or the one that says, “I have to get away from you before I vomit.” Either way, my right to pass had been granted and I raced to the men’s room.

I entered the restroom as if I were drunk and stumbling through the aisle of a Boeing 737 experiencing major turbulence. I braced the sink and stared into the mirror horrified by the mess that stared back at me. I actually did look like I had been crying from experiencing major trauma. Come to think of it though, in reality I guess I had just experienced some major trauma. I breathed in deep the scent of the fragrant urinal cakes and breathed out a huge moan of relief. I decided to trust her idea of splashing water on my face and forced my head into the sink. The cold water invigorated me but only replaced my disgust with panic. I regained my ability to speak and yelped loudly, “Woah! Woah!… Holy crap!” I shook my head and pounded my hands on the sink. “Damn! Holy crap! Wow.……. Oh, wow! Okay, okay. Now what?” I stood there asking myself this question as I contemplated returning to the booth or actually escaping through the back exit. What repercussions would ensue if I were to leave at that moment? Would she be upset and stalk me? Nah, this was only our first date. What harm could be done if she never saw me again? But then, this is a small town and it is more than likely that she would see me again. And how well did I really know this girl? Would she do a background check on me? Could she somehow find out where I lived and egg my house or place on my doorstep a bag of burning… It was at this point I realized that I was probably making a bigger deal out of this than necessary. These things really couldn’t happen all because of this minor scene, could they? And why should I have been making a scene about this anyway. After all, she was human, right? Even though she was a woman, she ultimately was still a human who would have to surrender to normal bodily functions just as a man would. I just didn’t fathom it happening in a public place on a date. Regardless, I decided to muster up the courage to return to the scene of the crime and left the restroom.

As I started back to the booth, I had to pass the rear exit and noticed that the door leading to the alley behind the building was open. In the alleyway stood a dumpster with an open lid, and in the dumpster hid something that produced an amazingly overwhelming stink that smelled like rotting meat and dirty diapers. It was a smell very much like what I had been accosted with earlier. It occurred to me then that this odor may have been the source of my demise rather than the innocent female that now sat confused and awed by my seemingly overactive set of emotions. The door must have been open earlier and let in the foul smell that was so excruciating. It made even more sense since the booth we were occupying was the closest to the rear exit. So with renewed anticipation and a bit of apologetic compassion I continued my pace to return to the lovely lady and restart our stimulating conversation. I chuckled thinking of how if one day she and I were ever to embark on a lasting relationship we would be sitting somewhere sipping wine and reminiscing about our first date and how I would share with her the agony I endured all the while thinking she had been the culprit that created the malodorous monstrosity. I imagined us laughing it off as she would give me a little “love” punch in the shoulder and say, “How could you think I could even do such a thing, you silly guy.” Then she would laugh again and say, “I love you.” These thoughts brought a smile to my face and a little bounce to my step. I now felt so much better as I approached a once awkward situation.

I reached our booth and twirled into it expecting to find her anxiously awaiting my return with a concerned look. Instead, I arrived to an amazing sound. It started as a honk combined with the putter of a lawn tractor. Then it melded into the “hup-hup” of a Mack truck braking in traffic and fizzled out like the flap of a deflating balloon. This curiously obnoxious sound reverberated from beneath the table upon the bench she sat. I knew then that I had discovered the mystery behind her confidence, as while still leaning to one side, she winked at me and grunted the words, “Oh yeah.”

Book Reviews

The Back of the Napkin
Reviewed by Wendy Soucie

Have you seen the TV commercial, “Let Brown Help You”? The long-haired guy draws a picture of boxes that turn into the solution to your freight problems – a UPS truck. I love that guy. He can draw and even I get his visual! He is showing us, with no text, how to solve a problem. That is visual thinking. I selected this month’s book, The Back of the Napkin, by Dan Roam, because it discusses developing visual thinking. Roam’s book explores the concept of visual thinking with a plethora of examples, and then carries it further by providing concrete steps to understand the process of thinking visually. Finally, it discusses and shows how to apply it in business.
As a consultant I often give presentations on strategic uses of the Internet, such as search engines and social marketing. Getting a variety of people within an audience to understand these concepts is a challenge. Depending on their level of interaction in this medium, what you show them and when is critical to helping them understand the overall concept and application in their business. I never could draw much better than stick figures. The example of the recent UPS ads, where the guy (actually the art director of the ad firm responsible for the campaign) is drawing pictures on a white board, shows that simple pictures can work.
To understand how I got here, it might be helpful to know that I have an identical twin sister. I got the math and science talent, while she received the artistic genes. To put it simply, I could balance a linear equation but she could draw, paint and write a poem about it. Giving public presentations forces me to be able to create strong visuals myself without the aid of a graphic designer. This is dangerous based on my aforementioned lack of artistic ability, unless I can do simple and effective pictures to get my points across. Intrigued by the reviews of this book on several blogs and several Youtube.com videos, I decided that this book was what I needed.

"The Back of the Napkin" by Dan Roam is reviewed by Wendy Soucie of Sortis Marketing, Madison, WI

For a neophyte like me, this book was very helpful by providing a self-assessment tool to help me figure out my starting point; that is, what kind of visual thinker I was. Roam defines the “types” as, “Black pens are for visual thinkers who can’t wait to draw themselves. Yellow pens are those who are happy to add to someone else’s work, and red pens are those who question it all right up to the moment they pick up the red pen and redraw it all.” Clearly, I am in the yellow category since I cannot draw well but do like highlighter pens.
The author also aids the reader by showing visual thinking as a guide rope, which makes for a simple visual. There is a four-step process (look, see, imagine, show); three built-in tools we each have to improve upon (our eyes, our mind’s eye and our hand-eye coordination); and six fundamental ways of seeing which are recognizable to anyone (also known as the six Ws: who, what, when, where, how and why).
I think the last third of the book is the best. It allows you to take a problem or concept you are actually working on and works through the four -step process to identify the issue and the solution. Roam then it provides suggestions on different types of visuals to help show that type of problem. In my case, I was developing a presentation on local search and needed to help people understand the interconnectivity of the top five search engines and then how everything else feeds off of that. This turns out to be both a “where” problem and “how” problem, which are best shown with a map and a flow chart. I used both in my presentation, which was well-received by the organization I gave the presentation to.
Many business books I read hold a place of esteem on my bookshelf. Just a few stay on the honor roll and on my desk for continual reference. I feel this book is a constant companion, at least until I can instill the visual-thinking process deep in my brain so it works effectively. I suggest this as a solid read to improve anyone’s skill in solving a problem or selling his or her ideas.

Wendy Soucie is a consultant for Sortis LLC, a Madison-based, full-service marketing firm.

The Back of the Napkin: Solving Problems and Selling Ideas with Pictures
By Dan Roam
ISBN-13: 978-1-59184-199-9
Format: Hardcover, 288 pages
Publisher: Portfolio, March 2008

Your Marketing Sucks
by Wendy Soucie

Talk about controversial! Imagine saying that to your client or manager? Mark Stevens, as president of a marketing firm, has done it and lived to tell about working with those clients to improve their sales and profits through his “Extreme Marketing” approach. I first read this book when I started at my current job. In fact, it is required reading to ensure our professional staff focuses on the right things when working with a client.

Over the past 29 years, I have always wanted to say “Your marketing sucks” to some companies. Why? Because after telling me about the marketing dollars spent, very few know their marketing goals as they relate to business goals or the ROI of each tactic. They might as well have thrown the money out the window. What is their problem? According to Stevens, they are not doing “Extreme Marketing.”

The central point is this: The only way to gauge marketing is to ask if it generates a significant ROI and, in turn, helps to grow your business.

Extreme Marketing has seven key guidelines:

1. Marketing is to be considered an integrated process.

2. Identify innovative initiatives to gain attention and market share.

3. Integrate all of the elements of your marketing program to reinforce each other.

4. Do not engage in marketing initiatives that fail to produce a positive ROI.

5. Go after the low hanging fruit.

6. Don’t be linear.

7. Be persistent, relentless, inventive, counter intuitive, challenging, combative, strategic and tactical.
These guidelines support the process:

1. Develop a strategy for winning new business based on the value proposition of your products or services.

2. Communicate the value proposition every way you can.

3. The customer must fall in love with the company and/or its products and services.

Your Marketing Sucks is written by and reviewed by Wendy Soucie of Sortis Marketing.

Your Marketing Sucks is written by Mark Stevens and reviewed by Wendy Soucie of Sortis Marketing.

This book provides real-world examples and other well-known businesses that have “boldly gone where no man has gone before” with their marketing efforts.

One interesting piece of advice given by Stevens is to fire your marketing firm if they apply for a creative or design award. He believes these firms confuse “creative marketing” (it wins awards) with “effective marketing” (it brings in more money than it costs). Our job as marketers is to create effective marketing that focuses on business growth, not egos and awards.

Stevens also supports the requirement of making the most of both offline (print and other media) and online (Internet) resources. You need to leverage your investment in your Web site. The Web is full of people searching for information on your product and services – they just haven’t decided who to purchase it from. You need to provide them strong reasons to do so and ensure that your Extreme Marketing message is consistent, from your Web site to your print collateral, to even the experience they have when they first call to learn more.

I would recommend all employees read this book to get everyone on the same page in terms of differentiation for your business and sales focus. In fact, this should be a basic book for every entrepreneur and seasoned business owner alike. It includes 10 key rules for assessing your current marketing efforts and a seven-day planner to start an internal process for creating your own Extreme Marketing campaign. Stevens has presented a meaningful methodology and a call to action that is not outside the reach of any small business owner, with or without a marketing background.

I loved Steven’s frankness and this book a quick read with wry humor. If you don’t find the time, keep his guidelines and Extreme Marketing process in mind the next time you do your marketing planning or hire a consultant.

Wendy Soucie is director of business development and a senior strategist at Sortis, LLC, a branding, marketing and Internet development firm in Madison.

Your Marketing Sucks

By Mark Stevens
ISBN: 0609609831
ISBN-13: 9780609609835
Format: Hardcover, 240 pages; also available in paperback
Publisher: Crown Publishing Group, April 2003

Free Speech | March 17, 2009 6:28 AM

8 Comments

By peg zaemisch, March 18, 2009 @ 5:21 PM

Hey! Great writing all! Good to hear about Finney and his regal lineage. And Stench! What can I say? Gag. Keep writing! Your work is delightful.
By Rebecca, March 19, 2009 @ 1:22 PM

Could Finney be any cuter? What a great story and I can’t wait to keep reading about him. I’ve known a few dogs in my life who, I swear, thought they were the King of the castle. It’s fun to read about someone elses royalty. Thanks for the fun!!