The Listen Lady: A novel and social media research guide baked into one
F. Annie Pettit PhD
Copyright © 2011 by Annie Pettit
Smashwords Edition
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All examples were conceived of, written, and illustrated by the author.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or personas, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover illustration by Dustin Holmes, DustinHolmes@yahoo.com
The Listen Lady
Annie has baked a sumptuous cupcake of a story using all the mysterious ingredients of social media to illustrate practical marketing applications that any entrepreneur could understand and apply to make their business more successful.
Cam Davis, Ph.D. @CamDavis48, Managing Director of Social Data Research
The book is a lovely, easy read which neatly identifies, lists and extols the key pillars of our Social Media ethics and tops them off with a nice little analytical "cherry."
Finn Raben, @Finn01, Director General of ESOMAR
FANTASTIC! Very clever wording choices, phrases. Imagery is excellent. Crystal is someone I relate to.
Kathryn Korostoff, @ResearchRocks, President of Research Rockstar, Author of How to Hire & Manage Market Research Agencies
Annie manages to place a real-world stepwise guide to conducting social media research in a clever fictionalized novel form. This book is great for business and research managers alike. Well worth the read!
Vaughn Mordecai, @Discores, President of Discovery Research Group, Author of The Landmark Blog
A sure sign of the times” – proof that social media research has come of age, a “how to” book has been written in a light hearted way by no less than our favourite blogger, LoveStats. A “must read” for aspiring social media analysts.
Tessie Ting, @TessieTweets, Co-Founder of Conversition
Available on Amazon
The LoveStats Blog Volume 1: 2009
Coming in 2012
The LoveStats Blog Volume 2: 2010
The LoveStats Blog Volume 3: 2011
Dedicated To
Dustin who gives me heart
The Conversition team, Tessie Ting, and Jean Davis who give me wings
The Twitteratti who give me reason
The MRIA, MRA, CASRO, and ESOMAR who give me faith
The
Listen Lady
Chapter 1.
After an hour of painstakingly tweaking decimal places and fiddling with equations on her laptop, Crystal sat behind her desk at the window attempting a popular technique called ‘staring at the numbers until your eyes explode.’ Perpetually tired from fifteen hour work days, Crystal found easy success in the task. She rested her chin in her hands and allowed her blank gaze to shift to the city outside.
Past her bakery and the neighbouring shops, college kids weighted down with MEC knapsacks hurried through the downtown street on their way to class. Fitness freaks in Lulu Lemons speed-walked to the local fitness club three streets over. A row of newly planted red Maple trees, an attempt by local residents to bring life to the neighbourhood, lined the sidewalk but with leaves yet to fill out, could not bring life to the tired street.
Their heads down, braced against the crisp breeze, passers-by paid no attention to the tiny bakery stuffed between a mani-pedi shop, its windows covered in faded brown paper and a second-hand bookstore that strangely proclaimed Cheep Cheep Prices. Above the bakery door, a newly hand-painted sign of a sweet, gray-haired Grannie greeted all who chanced to look up. And today, one person did.
The front door of Grannie’s swung open smacking the door chime into action and Crystal out of her stupor. She slammed her laptop closed and sprang lightly to her feet. Not a miniscule crumb fell from her whiter than white apron as she brushed her hands across it and smoothed it flat over her precision pressed white shirt and khakis. Her blonde hair, tightly packed into a pony-tail with not a single stray strand, was the vanilla icing on a non-fat, non-sugar, flavourless cupcake.
“Morning,” she called out, relieved that the aroma of this morning’s triple fudge brownies had lingered long enough to greet her visitor. “Welcome to Grannie’s.” Crystal pulled a fresh pair of thin plastic gloves from her apron pocket and yanked them on. She stood at attention behind the counter, a dutiful smile on her face.
“Good morning,” replied the customer as the door creaked shut behind her. She pushed aside the sleeve of her woollen jacket and checked her watch. “Lunch time, it is.” She took in the narrow shop in one prolonged gaze.
A long, red brick wall covered with an expanse of adjustable IKEA shelves held a few fat loaves of pumpernickel bread, some sourdough rounds cut with cross hatches, and six paper bags of whole wheat sandwich bread. The opposite wall boasted drywall the colour of every hotel room that ever existed and served as the backdrop for a long glass dessert case. Inside the case, a limited assortment of heart attack inducing treats was on display. Almond nougat rounds with chocolate drizzle, gooey raisin buttertarts with flaky crusts, and cinnamon cookies shedding giant crystals of sugar tempted the eyes and the stomach.
Crystal’s practiced smile remained firm as she sized up her new customer and decided on a suitable nickname. The short mousy hair, muted orange jacket, mustard yellow shoes, maroon cords, and forest green scarf combined to create an outfit that was either direct from the runway in Paris or a falsely benevolent cousin’s cast-offs.
The crayon coloured lady turned to Crystal, letting the broad handle of her canvas bookbag slide off her shoulder and into her hand. “You must have had a busy morning.” She nodded towards the sparse shelves. “You’re almost sold out of everything but what I do see looks delicious.”
“Thanks,” Crystal said, her voice flat. “What can I get for you?” She picked up a flattened sheet of white cardboard from under the dessert case and folded it into a ten by ten pie box.
Leaning forward to peer into the dessert cases, the Crayon Lady pointed at a tray of meticulously arranged date squares finished with a crumbly oatmeal topping. “Two of those. I’ve never been able to resist a chunky date square and those look like the best I’ve ever seen.”
With a slight sigh, Crystal replaced the pie box under the counter and instead folded together a smaller box. She tucked both squares into the box and tied it securely with a long pink string.
As she waited, the Crayon Lady picked up one of the business cards displayed the cash register. She glanced at the Grannie’s logo on the front of the card, and quickly flipped the card over and back again. “What’s your Twitter name?” she asked, looking up at Crystal. “It’s not on your card.”
Crystal stared for a moment at the Crayon Lady and then at the stack of business cards. She was puzzled by the question having double and triple checked every letter and number before finally approving their printing. She knew there was nothing wrong with them.
“My what?” Crystal finally asked, doubt building in her mind. She picked up a card for herself, checking it letter by letter again.
“Your Twitter name. You’re on Twitter, no?”
Crystal turned her head from side to side, slowly, her face full of confusion.
The Crayon Lady crammed the card into her jacket pocket, the sound of crinkling echoing through the bakery. “Let me guess. You don’t know what Twitter is. I’m on Twitter so much that I forget barely thirteen percent of people who use the internet use Twitter. And you’re one of the people who should.”
Glancing around the bakery once more before turning back to Crystal, she continued. “It smells fantastic in here, like you’ve baked a teaspoon of Grannie’s love into everything. You really should get online and take advantage of social media. Twitter would be the perfect way to promote your bakery to thousands of people.” With the small white box tucked safely inside her worn bag, she winked at Crystal and departed.
Sure, Crystal thought, as she watched the Crayon Lady disappear down the street. That’s the quick fix I need. Playing on the internet will fix everything.
Chapter 2.
As the door creaked shut and the street sounds quieted to nothing behind the closed door, Crystal pulled the rickety garage-sale stool out from under her desk and slumped into it.
As a kid, she had filled her spare time baking crumble-topped cranberry muffins and perfectly smooth cherry cheesecakes, treats that were sought after and devoured by friends and colleagues who had a bit of spare cash to cover the cost of ingredients. Every crack and every cranny in her mother’s kitchen had been perpetually embedded with flour and sugar no matter how diligently Crystal cleaned up after her creative endeavours.
Her passion for baking turned into a dream and eventually a dream fund into which every penny earned from babysitting and odd painting jobs was squirreled away. When she was old enough to command minimum wage and tips, the dream fund grew more quickly from waitressing and working in the bakery of a local grocery store. Building the dream fund superseded the manicures, celebrity gossip magazines, and venti double-shot lattes that her highschool classmates splurged on. Instead, Crystal treated herself with professional quality baking equipment and parchment paper.
With an overdose of determination, a Baking and Pastry Arts Diploma fresh in hand, and just enough money to cover rent and essentials, Crystal found herself the proud proprietor of 365 square feet of scratched paint, dirty floors, and musty air.
Leading up to opening day, Crystal polished and preened every square millimetre of what was sure to be the most beloved shop in the neighbourhood. She dreamed of impatient customers craning their heads to see in the windows at 6am, and shelves that were never full no matter how much she baked. She envisioned a staff of three part-timers bustling behind the counter, struggling to keep up with the steady stream of customers. Though opening day was a dream come true, each passing day and week chipped and tore at the dream. The shelves were practically empty not because there were so many customers but because there were no customers.
The unsolicited compliments from the Crayon Lady simply brought disappointment to the forefront of Crystal’s mind and now, she sat at her desk harbouring her sorrows. She needed a distraction and a tiny red blinking light did the trick. Crystal tilted her head towards the laptop. It blinked again.
Blink. Blink.
It called to her, not to revise her financial predictions for the fiftieth time nor to revise her recipe for lactose-free brownies. It called to her to find out what the tweeter thing was, to discover what the Crayon Lady was talking about.
Crystal shimmied her stool closer to the desk and dragged the laptop a little closer. She opened up Firefox and typed a word into the Google search box. Staring at the first of 12 billion results, she could think of no better option than to click on the first one. This must be it, she thought.
Hopeful that the website would lead her down the right path, Crystal did as it instructed. She entered her name and email address, and chose a username. She proceeded through the pages and clicked on the follow button beside the oddly familiar names of Lady Gaga, Ryan Seacrest, Russell Brand, Charlie Sheen, and Katy Perry and more.
It didn’t matter that the tweeter idea had come from a stranger. Crystal was not about to ignore any suggestion that could turn out to be the one thing between her and success. After completing the sign-up process, she twirled her index finger in the air and then clicked on the button that would bring everything to light.
Crystal’s hand flew to her wide-open mouth. She burst out laughing at words that would normally result in a mouth full of soap. Resisting the urge to slam the laptop shut, she continued to read, sorting the messages into those written by crazy people, really crazy people, and those who had never had any marbles.
Intrigued at the types of messages that others had deemed worthy of sharing, Crystal delved deeper into the psyche of famous musicians, movie stars, and celebrity wanna-bes. A relationship break-up over a blue guitar. A new reality TV show about building fashionable furniture out of garbage. Falling down drunk in the middle of the road with no pants on. The messages were oddly addictive but for all the writing people did, there seemed to be little of substance.
Having learned as much as could possibly be learned, Crystal glanced at the time on her computer. She gasped in horror and slammed the laptop shut. Sure, she sometimes had trouble filling her days with useful activities but this was a new low. She hadn’t found any new cost savings. She hadn’t written any new recipes. She’d applied for no small business grants. She had, however, accomplished one thing. She’d gotten sucked into a nonsense website full of ridiculous gossip and wasted hours of valuable time. Just because a strange lady off the street told her to.
Crystal slid off the stool and, reaching under the counter, pulled out an empty packing box. She filled it with the day’s unsold baked goods and carefully printed across the top with a thick black marker. At least the Daily Bread Food Bank would have a good day.
Chapter 3
The week progressed with early morning baking, mid-morning cleaning, and the dreaded afternoon task of packing up unsold date squares, apple tarts, and oatmeal cookies. This morning, the bread and treats baked, iced, and meticulously organized in the dessert case and on the shelves, Crystal wondered how much of it would end up in a packing box. She adjusted her hairnet confirming that every last strand of hair was securely jailed, washed her hands, and swapped her spotless apron for an immaculate one. She settled into her stool at the front window ready to concoct tasks for the rest of the day.
It was nearing one o’clock when the door chime pulled her away from an internet search for red Valentine’s Day cookies that used no food colouring. Desperate to make the first sale of the day, she slammed the laptop closed and called out a cheerful “Morning.” Crystal smoothed her apron and pulled on a fresh pair of plastic gloves before looking up to see she had a repeat customer.
“Hi again.” The Crayon Lady strode over to the counter and deposited herself in front of the cash register. Like the week before, she gazed around the shop, taking in the pristine floors, the shiny glass cases, and the crumb-free counters. “My, my, it’s quiet,” she said, an easy smile on her face. “Is it always this quiet on Tuesdays?”
Crystal forced a smile. A huge lump filled her throat. “Uh, yeah. It’s a bit quiet. Kind of cold out. No fun for shopping.” Crystal waved her hand towards the window as three maroon-haired ladies strolled by clutching shopping bags.
“By the way,” said the Crayon Lady, “I’m Brooke. Brooke Audire.” She thrust a hand over the counter and grabbed Crystal’s still rising hand. Shocked, Crystal managed to spit out her name.
“Did you take my advice?” Brooke asked. “I looked for you on Twitter and Facebook and Wordpress this week but I couldn’t find you anywhere.” Brooke paused for a moment. “Maybe I spelled Grannie’s Goodies wrong.”
“Well, I did sign up for it.” Crystal chose her words carefully, working hard to ensure her voice was calm and polite. “I signed up for the tweeter and I even tried it out for a bit. Actually, I wasted a few hours on it.” Crystal fiddled with the overly-long fingers of her plastic gloves.
Brooke leaned against the counter and tilted her head towards the glass case. “I don’t remember seeing those the last time I was here.” She nodded at a plate of buttertarts prominently displayed on top of the case.
“They were there,” Crystal said. “I make a new kind of buttertarts every Tuesday.” She watched Brooke peer into the case and tried to anticipate what she might buy this time. Date squares again, maybe the buttertarts? Anything?
“So you have a brand new kind of buttertart every Tuesday,” repeated Brooke, still eyeing the contents of the dessert case.
Crystal nodded.
“A new kind of buttertart every Tuesday.”
Crystal’s eyes widened and she nodded again, more slowly this time. Apparently Brooke had squeaked through Kindergarten with a D in Listening.
“Who knows about your buttertart Tuesdays? How many people come in every Tuesday specifically to buy them?”
A moment of indecision preceded Crystal’s answer. “One.” The heat of embarrassment crept up her neck and spread across her cheeks. Something wasn’t right. This Brooke person had something on her mind. She seemed to be looking for a specific answer.
“Would you like a way to tell hundreds of people, maybe even thousands of people, that Tuesdays are the best days to come by if you love buttertarts? Even better,” she said, glancing around the immaculately maintained bakery, “since I’ve yet to see any customers in here, would you be interested in something free?”
Crystal wiped an invisible speck of dust from the top of the cash register. “Things will pick up soon. Grannie’s is new. People haven’t found it yet.”
With a quiet look of understanding on her face, Brooke stood firm. She watched Crystal. She waited.
If Crystal had started the day with any confidence, it had melted away in the presence of this stranger. She knew it no longer mattered what secrets were spilled now. Brown paper in the windows would reveal them soon enough.
Crystal’s cracked facade broke. “If you have to know, my bakery isn’t doing well at all. I put every penny I ever earned to get this place and I’m going to lose everything.”
Brooke’s hands lay still against the edge of glass case, the frayed straps of her bookbag digging into her shoulder, threatening to spill the contents across the floor.
“I can’t keep it up much longer,” Crystal continued, surprised to feel the lump in her throat lessen. Sharing her secret felt good. The burden seemed more manageable.
Looking straight into Crystal’s eyes, Brooke’s voice was measured and authoritative. “I want to help you. I know it makes no sense to you but I can help you save your bakery. And it won’t cost you anything.”
Crystal fidgeted with her gloves. Strangers hold doors, pick up dropped items, and smile as you walk past them. Strangers don’t come out of nowhere and offer to help you save your business. She glanced out the window wondering if she was on TV but saw no cameras, no lights, nothing unusual.
“Here’s what I propose,” Brooke continued. “Over the next couple of months, I’m going to visit your shop every Tuesday around lunchtime and teach you what I know about using social media and market research to build a better business. I’ll teach you how to learn about your industry, and how to research what your customers really want from you. My goal is that you end up with more customers, more money in your cash register, and hopefully so much business that you’ll need to hire some help.” Brooke took a small step back and folded her arms.
Crystal raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Keep talking, she thought.
Brooke outlined the rest of her plan. “My help isn’t free.”
Here it is, Crystal thought. Lay it on me.
“Every time we meet, instead of paying me for my time and advice, you’ll pay me with a box of baking. You get free advice. I get free baking.” Brooke stepped closer without losing eye contact. “You have nothing to lose,” she encouraged.
Crystal couldn’t believe it. This woman had obviously forgotten her wallet. All this for free cookies? She needed her bakery to succeed but she wasn’t sure if she’d been offered something for nothing or nothing for something. Thoughts of fear and hope and bewilderment swirled around her head.
“Do we have a deal?” Brooke asked, her voice more authoritative and insistent now.
The faint hope that a mysterious plan might turn her failed shop into a success was as enticing to Crystal as vanilla flavouring made with Chopin vodka and eight plump Mexican vanilla beans. It had never been part of the plan to watch her lifelong dream disappear in three months. She couldn’t let that happen if there was the slightest chance of preventing it. For the price of a box of baking.
“I’m in,” Crystal said. The sound of her own voice accepting help surprised her. She felt a smile grow on her face.
“I’m glad to hear it. We start right now. Bring that.” Brooke pointed at the laptop, spun on her heel, and marched to the back of the store where three mismatched chairs argued with a tiny table for space against the back wall. She squeezed herself into the wobbly blue chair and dumped her bag on the pristine floor.
Crystal stared after her self-invited guest. She watched, eyes wide open, as Brooke removed her scarf, jammed it in her bookbag, and settled in.
“Let’s go,” demanded Brooke, beckoning furiously to Crystal with her hand. “You aren’t bogged down with customers and I don’t have to be anywhere for an entire hour. Let’s go.”
After locking the cash register, Crystal pulled the key out and shoved it deep into her apron pocket. She covered it with two plastic gloves and an order pad, and nervously made her way to the table with the laptop.
Crystal had barely arrived at the table when Brooke reached out and grabbed the laptop with both hands. Crystal’s grasp on her $200 refurbished purchase tightened.
Releasing her grip, Brooke laughed and held her hands up in mock defeat. “Relax. If I was that desperate for a netbook, I would have grabbed it last week.”
Crystal smiled a narrow smile of nervousness and tentatively offered the laptop to Brooke. She pulled out a chair and sat down. “Why are you helping me?” she asked. “You can’t be doing this just for free cookies. What’s in this for you?”
“How about you worry about me after we turn your bakery into a massive success,” Brooke said. “Are you one hundred percent on board?”