11.1. SENSEI SENSIBILITY
If you've ever been run down by a gang of glow-in-the-dark, skeleton-suit wearing karate misfits, then you know the real value of finding a sensei—fast. Having a reliable sounding board for your content, design, and delivery is a must-have for conquering anxiety. After all, what is our anxiety most often about? It's not that we might lose our jobs; it's what people will think about us! If we can answer this question before the big day, then we won't have to worry about it at all.
Though The Karate Kid's Mr. Miyagi wasn't the boardroom type or the sensational closer, he understood the human mind and, more importantly, the human soul. In the classic coming-of-age story about a transplanted teen searching for stability, Mr. Miyagi dispensed some advice that could be useful to all of us.
11.1.1. Wax On/Wax Off
Like any smart parental figure, Mr. Miyagi saved the reward—karate skills—for last. Prior to learning any fighting skills, his protégé Daniel had to perform a litany of home equity boosting chores (washing the car, sanding the deck, painting the fence, and so on) before getting what he really wanted. In the process, he developed the raw strength and coordination he would need to make real progress as the karate kid. Painting the fence drilled two key blocking movements into his muscle memory without him even having to think about it.
There are things that you do every day that make you a great presenter. Can you tell a great bedtime story to your kids? What about make people laugh around the water cooler? Try to identify some of your best speaking skills (not public speaking; just speaking) and hone them. If you already have skills, you'll find it much easier to transfer those skills to the stage than to start from scratch.
11.1.2. Hearts and Minds
Mr. Miyagi's wisdom in withholding direct karate instruction is revealed when, in a moment of immaturity, Daniel gets so carried away with a technical display of ability that Miyagi sets him straight, hard. Few setbacks are as humiliating as being decked by the elderly.
Impatience, though, has nothing to do with Miyagi's swift reprimand. He is revealing to Daniel how little success in karate, and in life, depends on technical skill. Excellence is in the heart and the mind, not in the sterile execution of physical movements.
I see presenters take the stage with Daniel's approach all the time. I've witnessed decks that are Twitter-interactive, designed by glamorous design firms, written by speechwriters who never worked for George W. Bush, you name it: They've pulled out all the stops and spent every last penny, and they still fall flat on their face. What happened?
We get so focused on the bells and whistles that we forget what it is that we're doing. I, along with every other superstitious person, can't prove that a sixth sense exists. But I can promise you that your audience will know if you're more concerned with impressing them technically than you are with forming an emotional connection. The difference is subtle—impressed audiences do walk away smiling and happy—but when it's time to sign on the dotted line, the results are dramatic.
11.1.3. No Fear
What if you just accept that some of the presentations you give are going to fail? Sometimes it will be you, sometimes the crowd, sometimes the unfortunate natural disaster that destroys the venue in mid-speech, erasing all record that the presentation ever took place.
Mr. Miyagi taught Daniel as much: Without the pressure to be perfect, Daniel was free to become extraordinary. Sometimes, refusing to acknowledge risk has a way of enlarging it; simply admitting that things might not work out sets us free to get on with doing a really solid, quality job. Tip your hat to the worst-case scenario and get on with your great presentation.
11.1.4. Easier Said Than Done
No doubt many of you are fighting deep feelings of resentment at an author asking you to just stop being anxious. I understand: It's paralyzing and has a way of distorting reality. When you're feeling relaxed, it sounds easy enough to just go for a run, breathe, prepare, or do anything to make it go away. When reality sets in, though, things can get a little trickier.
The bike analogy couldn't be more to the point: Anxiety is always going to be unmanageable if you only face it when you absolutely have to. When we were kids learning to ride bikes, we did it all day, every day. First we did it with training wheels, then with a parent close by, then with 20 lbs. of protective gear, and then freestyle over ramps and ditches. If you want to be the BMX equivalent in the presentation world, you have to build up your poise on stage. I promise you that if the only times you step on stage are the biggest moments, you're going to do more to condition your body to become nervous about public speaking than to be comfortable.
This is the old Pavlov discovery: When we consistently experience an emotion next to a stimulus, it becomes conditioned within us. It's natural to experience nerves and anxiety on the big stage; we're talking about tremendous, life-changing opportunities here. However, pair those two together enough, and all of a sudden you'll start feeling anxious every time you hear the word presentation—just like Pavlov's dogs salivated every time they heard the bell, even after the food was removed.
You have the power to condition yourself. Force yourself to speak when nothing is on the line, when it doesn't matter. Who cares if you botch your Aunt Edna's birthday toast? Didn't she give you that new pair of underwear on your 6th birthday for all to see? A bad toast is revenge; a good toast is a step toward presentation excellence.
Speak, speak, speak; deliver, deliver, deliver. If you're going to be a presenter, be one: Present, and do it often. All of the other tricks of the trade depend on a single, indispensable presentation asset: you. If you are compromised by anxiety, the entire presentation comes unhinged. But no pressure—and anyway, haven't we already mastered that?