LinkedInfamy

About once a week, a client asks if we can make one of their executives LinkedIn famous. Entirely understandable. Possibly achievable. But harder than you’d think—or at least that’s been my own experience … trying this for myself. Because I have a confession. I’ve nurtured a secret, on-again-off-again ambition to do the same. 

It weirds me out to admit that. Past me would have tripped over himself to reassure you it’s just because it’s a good channel—because Fenwick needs marketing, because it’s for client research. That I don’t really want it. *Laughs unconvincingly.*

Because what am I, vain? 

Today I’ll share why my fears held me back. And why taking yourself too seriously there, or too unseriously, or any synthetic posture, is a mistake. I don’t know your executive’s deal. Mine was pathological. I had to confront personal trauma. They might too.

I have by no means completed this journey and can claim no expertise. But now I’m present, some people respond, and it finally doesn’t feel bad.

Plus, I’ll critique my LinkedIn writing along the way.

By the way, last chance to join our first writing class cohort. It's just 2-3 hours per week, most of which you'll apply to your existing work. And you'll meet other brilliant people who also read this newsletter.

LinkedIn journey, first phase: I hate this game *keeps coming back*

Initially, I was wracked with self-loathing. I told myself everything was ick and anybody who counted likes was vapid. Meanwhile, I counted likes. 

My posting was defined by all that I rejected rather than any genuine impulse to share. I was desperate to convince others that I did not need this. I joked with friends that if they ever saw me posting a screenshot inception (pictured), they could be certain I’d been kidnapped.

I drafted this but had the good sense not to post.

During this phase, I was, as William James put it, defined by what I was not. And in that void, who was I?

What didn’t work about these posts: 

• Random topics
• Boring topics
• I posted to promote (just forwarded links like anyone cared)
• Inconsistent tone (I tried memes and quoted myself)
• Judgmental

Second phase: Trying to be the smartest person in the room

So then I got over that and told myself I was doing it for others. What would others want? My unfiltered genius obviously. I plied my content marketing trade and treated LinkedIn like a blog. I bent my hammer on the anvil packing Maximum Performative Intelligence into every pixel.

Ick.

When I earned few reactions, I despaired. Perhaps that too was palpable. And I wouldn’t shut up about others who posted viral, empty platitudes. I felt crazy. Was no one else mad as heck? (I checked. They were not.)

In this same phase, I also mistook LinkedIn for a debate forum and several mini-famous personages found me obnoxious. They’d write a crowd-pleaser post and I’d reply and disagree, which was both honest and entirely unwelcome. They’d fire back a long, bitter screed on which it was clear they’d spent time. I was hurt. Weren’t they interested in the truth?

Also in this phase, I turned on LinkedIn’s “creator mode” and found, to my surprise, I had thousands of followers. But not really—they were just my many loose connections from having been a salesperson. I was both pleased by this deceit and alarmed. I was glissading down the slope of hell, grinning, guiltily.

In this phase, my posts didn’t work because they were:

• Factually true but dull
• Missing a “so what” for readers
• Disagreeable in an unkind way

Third phase: Sabbatical

Then I broke up with LinkedIn before it could break up with me. I abandoned posting but for long months still logged in and observed.

What didn’t work about these posts:

• There were none
• I wasn’t learning. Just stewing

Fourth phase: Coming clean

It is no coincidence that things improved when I began addressing the underlying malady—my fear of being seen and criticized. In my personal life, I’d come to realize I’d been living under a brutal regime of self-imposed beliefs—that a person like me couldn’t expect more from my close relationships. That I hadn’t earned a vacation. That I wasn’t worthy of praise. That struggling, even senselessly, was desirable and valiant. That to stay safe, above all, I had to remain invisible. 

It’s why I was so dogmatic about needing people to know I did not have normal human wants. Because then I’d be exposed to critique.

In realizing this, those fears receded. (It was more complicated but this is a newsletter.) At my wife’s encouragement, I began dressing in three-piece suits, blow-drying my hair, and taking better care of myself as I’d always wished I’d have done. I stopped hiding. And suddenly LinkedIn looked different. 

I no longer wanted anything from it. It lost its allure. That allowed me to sprawl unselfconsciously and just post whatever.

And … this too did not work. But I did not care. I feel my increased honesty was palpable in what I wrote and this is where the learning began. My style began to cohere, it grew friendlier, and I started receiving what felt like healthy, generative reactions that made me want to do more. And to spend more time with the people there.

What started to work about my posting: 

• I relented to the single-sentence intro format
• I celebrated our team more
• I celebrated others more
• Our designers weighed in 
• I tried video
• I was brief
• I was clear
• I didn’t think as much before posting
• I focused on what others were experiencing
• If I gave advice, it was clear enough to act on
• I didn’t judge and shared disputable premises

In conclusion, just be your ... oh no ... a platitude!

LinkedIn is for entertainment. That’s what I’ve come to realize. It’s also a tiny aperture through which just a pinhole of the real light of life escapes. Here I was, all those years, pouring my energy into trying to prove myself worthy and nobody was even watching. Now, in this new mindset, I don’t feel that same desire or worry. I think less. I sometimes post without editing. 

This whole time I’d been managing posts in a Kanban board, preserving every possible idea, and editing obsessively. But now I see that if a post idea has a certain spark, I know right away. It makes me laugh. And when I return, it makes me laugh again.

Whereas nothing on my Kanban board that started boring ever grew interesting. No amount of editing could alchemize that spark.

Same with trying to cram my posts into themed “pillars,” or tag them based on hypotheses, or all the schemes I’d developed in lieu of being truthful. I now just post what I want and ask myself the simple question, “Does it spark, and is this somewhat related to content marketing?” 

That’s it.

Perhaps my Kanban and tagging apparatus served its purpose, and now that I’m healed, the splint can fall away. Or perhaps it held me back. It's difficult to know. But like many creative endeavors, I succeeded through failing. I can now post without thinking because I’ve tried all else and know what I needn't worry about. Your executives may undergo a similar journey. 

Now, my purpose on LinkedIn is simple: Make friends. That's the marketing. When someone like Brian responds with something I absolutely must read, I have won. 

Now, here are my LinkedIn writing rules for myself:

• If it doesn’t have that “spark” upon first writing and first return, delete it.
• Limit the introduction to one premise. Seriously. Just one.
• Convey that premise in 1-2 short sentences, leave a space, write a hook.
• Put the most important thing first, like your question.
• Prize comments and reposts, ignore reactions. (So sayeth The Algo.)
• Omit links. Unless that better experience outweighs the reach penalty.
• All graphics should be on-brand—it builds familiarity.
• Do not overthink graphics—posts are often better without.
• Do not edit or comment on your own post in the first 20 minutes.
• Reply substantively to comments. Keep the conversation going.

This has led me to write things that make me laugh. (Thank you, Fenwick team for validating this idea and that amazing graphic.)

See: Donate your line breaks.

And now, at long last, I guess I too post platitudes. I hope mine aren’t empty.

See: Let’s name the thing.

How to apply today's story

If someone’s asking for your help writing their LinkedIn posts, ask them what they’re willing to invest. Share today's story. Like all marketing, it will demand their focus, their willingness to experiment, and their self-inquiry. For it to stick, it must become habit. And if they feel like they're going through hell but they want it, tell them to keep going.

In the next issue

SEO writing is for people. Always was, always will be.

Inside Fenwick

We’re all reading Radical Candor (the Fenwick book club does not mess around). And we’re sprucing up Salon, our new Slack for writers, and gearing for our first writing course cohort to start this Monday, April 1. 

Also the folks who help us manage HubSpot, The Operations Company, want you to know they thought we named this newsletter after the Green Day song, Longview. (We did not. Though I did listen to a lot of Green Day on my Walkman while rollerblading after school if that tells you something about me.)

Plus, more Callie photos.

Worth reading

How to improve your work writing. An HBR classic.

That insidious form of payment: Exposure. Meh on the writing, but LOVE the design. (Also, a client questionnaire.)

Random word generator where you can input “first letter.” Nice to pair with a fuzzy thesaurus like relatedwords.org.

 David C. Baker built a million-dollar business through his newsletter. 

The “perfect” article. 

How to write a love poem. Avoid sweeping statements.

Hyperfix. A newsletter about neurodivergence, work culture, and content.

Enjoying Longview? Share with someone you love.