A good friend of mine from Boulder called last night, and she mentioned at one point in the conversation that Texas had been in the news a lot in a "bad way." "Something to do with really bad air quality and environmental performance," she said.
It was refreshing talking to Carol and having the topic of environmentalism come up in conversation. It's a subject I'm passionate about. But it is easy to ignore it living here in Texas. After all, this is the land that brother oil built.
I live and work out in the country an hour from the city partly because, since moving to Texas, I've developed both allergies and asthma. When you can't breathe, it's a problem. A few years ago I worked at an ad agency three days a week in the heart of Dallas -- trendy uptown, right on McKinney. The cable car went by all day long full of mostly tourists going to the Hard Rock. Anyway, once in a while, we would walk to lunch somewhere more than a few blocks away. On 100 degree days, that usually triggered an afternoon asthma attack.
My doctor told me that going back and forth between the smog-filled air of Dallas and the intense forests and lushness of east Texas was troubling my lungs, which, she said, had become a tighter mesh from living at altitude for more than 15 years. Basically in east Texas you have three seasons, she had said, "Fall, Winter, and Allergy Season." Couple that with Dallas' putrid air quality, and you have a recipe for disaster.
So for the last several years I have mostly avoided Dallas on high pollution days, working from home more. At really bad allergy times, like the last four days for me, I either try to travel out of town (Vegas is always a good escape from blooming things) or stay pretty doped up on over-the-counter allergy meds. This means I'm only able to work in brief spurts of clarity, and I have to surrounder to the couch (on Sunday I did for the entire day).
More than once this week my kids has asked, "Mom, are you going to be okay?" "I'm fine," I tell them in my whispy, nasally voice, even though I do not feel fine. I'm on medication, and I feel like I'm walking around in a fuzzy bubble.
Yesterday I had been walking all over the Fort Worth Club trying to find an elevator that would take me to my car, and just as I found my car my phone rang. "Hello," I had answered. "Are you okay? You're breathing heavy!" My friend said, alarmed. "I'm fine," I had wheezed.
But I'm not fine. A few weeks out of the year I suffer a lot with breathing troubles. It really puts my focus on air quality. What if everyone in the world had the trouble I have, not just a few weeks a year, but all the time? Could it get that bad? Are we heading in that direction?
I have to listen to what my friend said about "bad news on the environmental front" in Texas. Our air quality everywhere is really important, because air doesn't stop at state boundaries. If we're screwing up our air here in Texas, we're screwing up the air in Oklahoma and Arkansas, and New Mexico, and Mexico...we're screwing it up for everyone. It doesn't matter if Coloradans do what they can do if we're going to send our stinky Texas air up toward the Rockies. If I lived in Colorado, I'd be pissed.
On an individual front, we have to do what we can do. This summer I'm not going to drive un-necessarily. My next car will be a hybrid. And I'm going to raise my kids to respect the environment and conserve. I know there's lots more that I can do and I'm going to give this a lot more thought... I hope that you will too.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Monday, May 28, 2007
Balancing Work and Life
I started my own business 11 years ago for one simple reason: I had two toddlers who needed me more than they were getting me because I had a job that had me more than it deserved me. So I quit the job, started my own business, and for the last decade I've practiced the gentle art of attempting to balance my work and my family.
Sure, it's easier when you're your own boss to take an hour or two off to attend an awards ceremony or party during the day at school. And sure, it's easier when you're self-employed to rearrange your schedule in the summer to accommodate the needs of kids who are all of a sudden under foot.
But when you work out of your home like I do, summer comes and work is a little harder to do. Parents who have to leave the house for work -- like most people do -- face their own set of summer challenges. I realize those are probably far worse than my own, but then again, they get to leave home.
At my house the scales pretty quickly shifted to the "life" side of the equation as early as two hours into "summertime." In fact, by 3 p.m. Friday (the kids got out at 1), I had four boys in the pool, which happens to be directly outside my office windows. Because of their ages, I no longer feel the need to supervise swimming, but it's a little hard to ignore the splashing and noise of four teenagers in a pool who are wound up from the last day of school.
Thankfully, as an independent business person I learned a long time ago about the value of technology. Quickly on Friday, with noodle smacking and jumping and splashing going on right outside my windows, I grabbed on to what just might be the best technological advance the independent, work-from-home professional ever had -- it's the gadget that is going to help me survive the summer of 2007: my new ipod.
My ipod was a gift for Mother's Day. It is not a fancy one, but it is the one I wanted -- the hot pink shuffle. I can only remember how to load music on it about every other time, so my play lists are still a little thin. But I really like it. Best of all, I discovered on Friday that when those buds are in my ears I am oblivious to everyone and everything outside of myself. It's me and Celine or Sarah or Barry, sitting at my computer, writing articles about outdoor lighting and pitching media via the internet.
Not only will I not hear the splashing this summer, but I also won't hear the front door and refrigerator door slamming every few minutes, and I won't hear the door bell or the beeping from the arrival of non-stop text messages. I won't hear the roar of the video games or the fights --- or even the laughter.
Yep, productivity is going to go through the roof for me this summer. I'm going to be in the zone! So if you've got some work to do, give me a call. Hopefully you won't mind the slight inconvenience of leaving a message. I no longer can hear the phone ring.
Sure, it's easier when you're your own boss to take an hour or two off to attend an awards ceremony or party during the day at school. And sure, it's easier when you're self-employed to rearrange your schedule in the summer to accommodate the needs of kids who are all of a sudden under foot.
But when you work out of your home like I do, summer comes and work is a little harder to do. Parents who have to leave the house for work -- like most people do -- face their own set of summer challenges. I realize those are probably far worse than my own, but then again, they get to leave home.
At my house the scales pretty quickly shifted to the "life" side of the equation as early as two hours into "summertime." In fact, by 3 p.m. Friday (the kids got out at 1), I had four boys in the pool, which happens to be directly outside my office windows. Because of their ages, I no longer feel the need to supervise swimming, but it's a little hard to ignore the splashing and noise of four teenagers in a pool who are wound up from the last day of school.
Thankfully, as an independent business person I learned a long time ago about the value of technology. Quickly on Friday, with noodle smacking and jumping and splashing going on right outside my windows, I grabbed on to what just might be the best technological advance the independent, work-from-home professional ever had -- it's the gadget that is going to help me survive the summer of 2007: my new ipod.
My ipod was a gift for Mother's Day. It is not a fancy one, but it is the one I wanted -- the hot pink shuffle. I can only remember how to load music on it about every other time, so my play lists are still a little thin. But I really like it. Best of all, I discovered on Friday that when those buds are in my ears I am oblivious to everyone and everything outside of myself. It's me and Celine or Sarah or Barry, sitting at my computer, writing articles about outdoor lighting and pitching media via the internet.
Not only will I not hear the splashing this summer, but I also won't hear the front door and refrigerator door slamming every few minutes, and I won't hear the door bell or the beeping from the arrival of non-stop text messages. I won't hear the roar of the video games or the fights --- or even the laughter.
Yep, productivity is going to go through the roof for me this summer. I'm going to be in the zone! So if you've got some work to do, give me a call. Hopefully you won't mind the slight inconvenience of leaving a message. I no longer can hear the phone ring.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
It's all that matters
There have been a few instances in the past week or so that have brought me back to a basic discussion I had in 1986 while working at the College for Financial Planning in Denver as a writer. Back during the "ME Generation" I was having this discussion with an editor, who had taken it upon herself not only to correct my copy, but give me a lesson in grammar to boot.
At the ripe old age of --- let's just say REALLY young, I was annoyed by this woman's insistance that she not only reprimand me for causing her to (in my opinion) do her job and "fix my stuff," but she also felt the need to teach me about dangling participles, split infinitives and run on sentences.
"I never really did learn my grammar real well. It's a creative process for me. I write naturally by putting a comma in where it sounds like you need a pause. 90 percent of the time it works," I had said with a classic "I'm 22 and you can't tell me anything, ya old hag," attitude.
My editor had looked at me with a mixture of amazement and pure hatred. "A world without grammar is a world without order. It's essential to the very foundation of our language. In a sense, it's the only thing that's really important," she had said, before waddling back into her cubicle and her collection of grammar books.
"Whatever," I had replied before retreating to my office to begin work on draft 12 of my current project, which I recall had started to be really annoying.
Flash forward 20 plus years and I find myself in a similar situation. I've written a 600 word article for national distribution, constructed a hypothesis, researched the topic, crafted a nice story that was actually interesting to read, and when my client reviews it his only comment was, "Please upper case the VP's title."
Now the title had been down-cased by the editor at the wire service, so to have the VP ask, via the marketing kid, to change it back cracked me up.
"So I swiveled in my chair and pulled my Associated Press Style Book off the shelf. I don't have to use it often, but it's always comforting to know it's there. I opened the AP Style Book and looked up TITLES.
"Lower case unless it's the Pope or President and it comes before their name." AP had spoken.
So I picked up the phone, called the marketing kid, and told him we couldn't upper case his title.
"It's the rule. It's the way it has to be," I had said.
"Rules are meant to be broken," he had snapped back.
"Grammar is the very foundation of our language, you can't break the rules. In some ways its the only thing that really matters," I heard someone who looks like a more wrinkled version of me say.
"What are you talking about?" my young client had asked with a bit of a snivel and "here she goes again" attitude in his voice.
"I'm talking about rules that you can't break. Grammar. AP Style. It's like the law in my business. You just can't mess with it."
"That's a drag," he had said, before adding, "I always just stick the comma where it sounds like it belongs."
I felt a chill run up my spine. The call ended and suddenly week-kneed I half limped half waddled back to my desk, put my AP Style Book in its revered spot on the crowded shelf, sat down, and said a little prayer for the next generation. Hopefully it will all work out.
At the ripe old age of --- let's just say REALLY young, I was annoyed by this woman's insistance that she not only reprimand me for causing her to (in my opinion) do her job and "fix my stuff," but she also felt the need to teach me about dangling participles, split infinitives and run on sentences.
"I never really did learn my grammar real well. It's a creative process for me. I write naturally by putting a comma in where it sounds like you need a pause. 90 percent of the time it works," I had said with a classic "I'm 22 and you can't tell me anything, ya old hag," attitude.
My editor had looked at me with a mixture of amazement and pure hatred. "A world without grammar is a world without order. It's essential to the very foundation of our language. In a sense, it's the only thing that's really important," she had said, before waddling back into her cubicle and her collection of grammar books.
"Whatever," I had replied before retreating to my office to begin work on draft 12 of my current project, which I recall had started to be really annoying.
Flash forward 20 plus years and I find myself in a similar situation. I've written a 600 word article for national distribution, constructed a hypothesis, researched the topic, crafted a nice story that was actually interesting to read, and when my client reviews it his only comment was, "Please upper case the VP's title."
Now the title had been down-cased by the editor at the wire service, so to have the VP ask, via the marketing kid, to change it back cracked me up.
"So I swiveled in my chair and pulled my Associated Press Style Book off the shelf. I don't have to use it often, but it's always comforting to know it's there. I opened the AP Style Book and looked up TITLES.
"Lower case unless it's the Pope or President and it comes before their name." AP had spoken.
So I picked up the phone, called the marketing kid, and told him we couldn't upper case his title.
"It's the rule. It's the way it has to be," I had said.
"Rules are meant to be broken," he had snapped back.
"Grammar is the very foundation of our language, you can't break the rules. In some ways its the only thing that really matters," I heard someone who looks like a more wrinkled version of me say.
"What are you talking about?" my young client had asked with a bit of a snivel and "here she goes again" attitude in his voice.
"I'm talking about rules that you can't break. Grammar. AP Style. It's like the law in my business. You just can't mess with it."
"That's a drag," he had said, before adding, "I always just stick the comma where it sounds like it belongs."
I felt a chill run up my spine. The call ended and suddenly week-kneed I half limped half waddled back to my desk, put my AP Style Book in its revered spot on the crowded shelf, sat down, and said a little prayer for the next generation. Hopefully it will all work out.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Funny Like That
I live in a small town, and I've been here eight years. When I first arrived, I cried every day for six months, deciding it was the biggest mistake I'd ever made. I missed my friends -- people that I'd known for years. A small town is a hard place to meet people. They're funny like that.
But I've grown to love it here. It's a great place to live. The town has grown a lot too. There's a Blockbuster where the flea market used to be, and a Radio Shack and half a dozen new restaurants. We now have Lowes and Chilis. We have a movie theatre, a couple health clubs, several spas, and even a hospital. It's really neat how fast it's grown. This town has become a pretty nice place. I love knowing the people I see each day. In a small town, you can always find people when you want them. It's funny like that.
I love my coffee shop. When I don't stop for a few days there's always lots to catch up on. (And if you stay gone too long, you're sure to be the topic of conversation.) I love my UPS Store. The people who work there are a part of my team. They see my faxes before I do and call to congratulate me when signed agreements arrive. I even get calls when I get checks in the mail. I like that. People in a small town want to know everything about you, and if you tell anything, you better be willing for everyone to know. It's funny like that.
I love that I can do my banking by phone with a live human, and I like that they know me at the cleaners. I'm part of a village raising all our kids, with small town car pools and neighbors to call when I get stuck in traffic or my kid needs a ride. I love that my kids have known their friends since they were small. I like waving at people in their cars and having them wave back. I even like it that I get an e-mail from my pastor checking up on me if I miss church. It's funny like that.
I love my pilates class and my fabulous friends who are just as wonderful or even more so than the friends I cried over when I left Colorado. It's interesting how things change. Now I'd only cry if I had to leave this place. Life is definitely funny like that.
But I've grown to love it here. It's a great place to live. The town has grown a lot too. There's a Blockbuster where the flea market used to be, and a Radio Shack and half a dozen new restaurants. We now have Lowes and Chilis. We have a movie theatre, a couple health clubs, several spas, and even a hospital. It's really neat how fast it's grown. This town has become a pretty nice place. I love knowing the people I see each day. In a small town, you can always find people when you want them. It's funny like that.
I love my coffee shop. When I don't stop for a few days there's always lots to catch up on. (And if you stay gone too long, you're sure to be the topic of conversation.) I love my UPS Store. The people who work there are a part of my team. They see my faxes before I do and call to congratulate me when signed agreements arrive. I even get calls when I get checks in the mail. I like that. People in a small town want to know everything about you, and if you tell anything, you better be willing for everyone to know. It's funny like that.
I love that I can do my banking by phone with a live human, and I like that they know me at the cleaners. I'm part of a village raising all our kids, with small town car pools and neighbors to call when I get stuck in traffic or my kid needs a ride. I love that my kids have known their friends since they were small. I like waving at people in their cars and having them wave back. I even like it that I get an e-mail from my pastor checking up on me if I miss church. It's funny like that.
I love my pilates class and my fabulous friends who are just as wonderful or even more so than the friends I cried over when I left Colorado. It's interesting how things change. Now I'd only cry if I had to leave this place. Life is definitely funny like that.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Friends Wanted
The older I get the more time I seem to spend helping my friends with their marketing and PR. I don't mind. My friends have interesting businesses like coffee shops and patio stores. They design houses and are interior decorators and photographers and fitness instructors and realtors. One friend (and most of the people she and I collectively know) sells Mary Kay.
My friends are also do-gooders, and I usually get to help. They host fundraisers and weekend retreats. They run for school board and city council. Inevitably, once new friends find out what I do, they come up with a project for me. The discussion usually goes like this:
"So what do you do exactly?" I usually answer with whatever I did that day. For example today I would say, "I help clients with their communications, write brochures, manage print jobs, help with client presentations, design ads, and talk to the press." "Oh," they say, "I wonder if you could help me with..." and that's how it starts.
I'm not complaining. I like being busy, and I like helping friends build their businesses or do their good deeds. I like helping people do something "professional" when they had no idea that they could. I love making my friends look good, helping them get a little publicity for themselves or their events, get their picture in the local paper, get elected.
And in truth, this work is never done for free. In exchange, I've been paid in dozens of creative ways. I have an enclosed breezeway in my house for helping launch a new business. I have energy efficient solar screens on both the front and back of my house from various efforts managing publicity, and writing stories, and designing stuff. I get free coffee, probably for life. I have friends willing to "pose" as my associates and accompany me on business trips or to meetings where showing up alone could be detrimental.
Today I got a "free" skirt and blouse for just saying I'd help with a presentation. And I'll get paid foundation, mascara and lipstick for ideas and assistance with a special promotion and some PR. The list goes on and on. I've had free months of pilates and "friends discounts" on professional services. It's great to live in a society where this is possible. It's good to have successful friends.
So that leads me to the point of this post. I'm looking for a few new friends. I'd love to have a friend who is a plastic surgeon or aesthestician. I could also use a friend in the dry cleaning business. If you meet these qualifications, let's get together soon! And I look forward to working -- I mean being friends -- with you!
My friends are also do-gooders, and I usually get to help. They host fundraisers and weekend retreats. They run for school board and city council. Inevitably, once new friends find out what I do, they come up with a project for me. The discussion usually goes like this:
"So what do you do exactly?" I usually answer with whatever I did that day. For example today I would say, "I help clients with their communications, write brochures, manage print jobs, help with client presentations, design ads, and talk to the press." "Oh," they say, "I wonder if you could help me with..." and that's how it starts.
I'm not complaining. I like being busy, and I like helping friends build their businesses or do their good deeds. I like helping people do something "professional" when they had no idea that they could. I love making my friends look good, helping them get a little publicity for themselves or their events, get their picture in the local paper, get elected.
And in truth, this work is never done for free. In exchange, I've been paid in dozens of creative ways. I have an enclosed breezeway in my house for helping launch a new business. I have energy efficient solar screens on both the front and back of my house from various efforts managing publicity, and writing stories, and designing stuff. I get free coffee, probably for life. I have friends willing to "pose" as my associates and accompany me on business trips or to meetings where showing up alone could be detrimental.
Today I got a "free" skirt and blouse for just saying I'd help with a presentation. And I'll get paid foundation, mascara and lipstick for ideas and assistance with a special promotion and some PR. The list goes on and on. I've had free months of pilates and "friends discounts" on professional services. It's great to live in a society where this is possible. It's good to have successful friends.
So that leads me to the point of this post. I'm looking for a few new friends. I'd love to have a friend who is a plastic surgeon or aesthestician. I could also use a friend in the dry cleaning business. If you meet these qualifications, let's get together soon! And I look forward to working -- I mean being friends -- with you!
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Turn the channel
Believe it or not, I'm in PR and I don't watch the news. Once in a great while, I have a client with a story and we use the news to spread the word. Most days, that's not the case. So I don't watch the news. I turned off my television to the six and ten o'clock news programs eight years ago. It was after a gradual phasing out and flipping away that eventually led me to turn it off for good.
My kids were little when Bill Clinton was president. I didn't need them hearing about Monica Lewinsky and cigars. "Turn the channel." Around the same time Jon Bonet was killed. We lived in Boulder. She had been one of "our" kids. "Turn the channel." Then on April 20, 1999, just a few months after my dad died, the Columbine massacre happened just an hour down the road. That was the end of television news for me. "Turn the channel."
Not watching the news hasn't curtailed my awareness too much. I listen to the radio and I read the headlines on the internet. I watch BBC on PBS, and sometimes the McNeil News Hour. But mostly I stay informed through my mother -- a TV junkie whose television never gets a rest.
My mom's the one who told me about Virginia Tech. It was Monday around 3:15. I had arrived early to get my son from school, I had a few minutes to kill, so I called my personal anchor. "What's going on?" I asked. Without skipping a beat, she told me about the horrific events in Blacksburg. "Turn the channel," I said. Not a chance.
Now I'll admit that Monday night around 8 p.m. I turned on CNN. I needed to be informed. I wanted to know. But the sadness was unbelievable. And in the middle of it all, there was Paula Zahn -- practically jumping up and down in excitement over the big story she was hosting that night. She didn't look sad. She looked downright elated. Perhaps it was her over-done botox that wouldn't let her scowl. Or maybe it was her cleavage that seemed a bit inappropriate for the occasion. Maybe it was just her enthusiasm for what she was doing -- holding court over a team of reporters who themselves didn't seem so spry. Paula's excitement seemed somehow out of place and inappropriate. Once again, I couldn't watch. As much as I wanted to be informed, as much as I felt an obligation to know what was going on in my country, I couldn't watch TV personalities getting so much enjoyment and so much air time out of others' pain.
"Turn the channel."
Sure, when it comes to news impacting my clients, I'm up to speed. But most of them have businesses that are not affected by Dannilynn's paternity, or murders, or other horrible, sensational, really, really bad news. My life isn't affected by those things. Yours probably isn't either.
"Turn the channel."
My kids were little when Bill Clinton was president. I didn't need them hearing about Monica Lewinsky and cigars. "Turn the channel." Around the same time Jon Bonet was killed. We lived in Boulder. She had been one of "our" kids. "Turn the channel." Then on April 20, 1999, just a few months after my dad died, the Columbine massacre happened just an hour down the road. That was the end of television news for me. "Turn the channel."
Not watching the news hasn't curtailed my awareness too much. I listen to the radio and I read the headlines on the internet. I watch BBC on PBS, and sometimes the McNeil News Hour. But mostly I stay informed through my mother -- a TV junkie whose television never gets a rest.
My mom's the one who told me about Virginia Tech. It was Monday around 3:15. I had arrived early to get my son from school, I had a few minutes to kill, so I called my personal anchor. "What's going on?" I asked. Without skipping a beat, she told me about the horrific events in Blacksburg. "Turn the channel," I said. Not a chance.
Now I'll admit that Monday night around 8 p.m. I turned on CNN. I needed to be informed. I wanted to know. But the sadness was unbelievable. And in the middle of it all, there was Paula Zahn -- practically jumping up and down in excitement over the big story she was hosting that night. She didn't look sad. She looked downright elated. Perhaps it was her over-done botox that wouldn't let her scowl. Or maybe it was her cleavage that seemed a bit inappropriate for the occasion. Maybe it was just her enthusiasm for what she was doing -- holding court over a team of reporters who themselves didn't seem so spry. Paula's excitement seemed somehow out of place and inappropriate. Once again, I couldn't watch. As much as I wanted to be informed, as much as I felt an obligation to know what was going on in my country, I couldn't watch TV personalities getting so much enjoyment and so much air time out of others' pain.
"Turn the channel."
Sure, when it comes to news impacting my clients, I'm up to speed. But most of them have businesses that are not affected by Dannilynn's paternity, or murders, or other horrible, sensational, really, really bad news. My life isn't affected by those things. Yours probably isn't either.
"Turn the channel."
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
The importance of planning ahead
Last week a really good guy -- a green builder and environmentally friendly real estate developer in Houston -- ran into a bit of a communication problem.
There was a street demonstration complete with protest signs and television cameras in front of a high profile corner property he owns and is redeveloping in inner Loop Houston. The protest wasn't really about him or his company or the townhomes he plans to build. It was about the development process in general and the fact that some residents of the area feel they don't have enough of a say in the development of property in their neighborhood.
As a result, this good guy developer became the poster boy for "bad" development. My new client, who cleaned up the neighborhood by demolishing a burned out crack house and desolate service station on a blighted corner, was only getting started with construction when the protesters showed up in force to cry foul that the development had been "rushed," insinuating to the television reporters and their giant audiences that this developer had somehow avoided the usual public hearings or city processes.
The truth is that my new client did only one thing wrong. He dotted all his "I"s and crossed all his "T"s when it comes to the building process, but where he erred was in the commmunication process. No, there is not a public hearing requirement for the plat of land he purchased. No, there's nothing to require him to tell anyone -- even his closest neighbors -- that he's going to build townhomes. Yes the zoning was for multi-family housing, and No he was not taking away any green space but planned to actually add a little back.
But none-the-less, his property came under the microscope because of a failure to communicate.
Now I can't take the blame, because I didn't know him BEFORE this problem and only met him after it occurred. But we're communicating now: to city council officials and homeowner's boards, nearby neighbors and the media. Although placed in a position of defensiveness, we're not being defensive. We're communicating our concern about the neighbors' concern, and we're moving forward with a strategy that would have been a good one to put in place before the demolition or redevelopment ever began.
The lesson here: proactive is better than reactive, but when it's time to react, do it quickly and get the help you need. This new client was lucky to have a good friend who has my number and knew I would help -- even on Easter weekend. By Monday morning, we were alerting those that were alerted by the protesters that we were concerned for the protesters' concerns and ready to disclose everything anyone wanted to know about our plans for our property AND help them figure out a better way to tap into the city process.
So far it seems to be working, and this developer now believes in the value of plugging in a little planning and preparation time for the communications surrounding his developments. Before he moves an inch of dirt.
There was a street demonstration complete with protest signs and television cameras in front of a high profile corner property he owns and is redeveloping in inner Loop Houston. The protest wasn't really about him or his company or the townhomes he plans to build. It was about the development process in general and the fact that some residents of the area feel they don't have enough of a say in the development of property in their neighborhood.
As a result, this good guy developer became the poster boy for "bad" development. My new client, who cleaned up the neighborhood by demolishing a burned out crack house and desolate service station on a blighted corner, was only getting started with construction when the protesters showed up in force to cry foul that the development had been "rushed," insinuating to the television reporters and their giant audiences that this developer had somehow avoided the usual public hearings or city processes.
The truth is that my new client did only one thing wrong. He dotted all his "I"s and crossed all his "T"s when it comes to the building process, but where he erred was in the commmunication process. No, there is not a public hearing requirement for the plat of land he purchased. No, there's nothing to require him to tell anyone -- even his closest neighbors -- that he's going to build townhomes. Yes the zoning was for multi-family housing, and No he was not taking away any green space but planned to actually add a little back.
But none-the-less, his property came under the microscope because of a failure to communicate.
Now I can't take the blame, because I didn't know him BEFORE this problem and only met him after it occurred. But we're communicating now: to city council officials and homeowner's boards, nearby neighbors and the media. Although placed in a position of defensiveness, we're not being defensive. We're communicating our concern about the neighbors' concern, and we're moving forward with a strategy that would have been a good one to put in place before the demolition or redevelopment ever began.
The lesson here: proactive is better than reactive, but when it's time to react, do it quickly and get the help you need. This new client was lucky to have a good friend who has my number and knew I would help -- even on Easter weekend. By Monday morning, we were alerting those that were alerted by the protesters that we were concerned for the protesters' concerns and ready to disclose everything anyone wanted to know about our plans for our property AND help them figure out a better way to tap into the city process.
So far it seems to be working, and this developer now believes in the value of plugging in a little planning and preparation time for the communications surrounding his developments. Before he moves an inch of dirt.
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