By Jean-luc Doumont | Senior Member
4:30 AM. My iPod lets off its familiar wake-up tone. As I open an eye to reach for it, the furniture's silhouette around me seems utterly unfamiliar. Where am I? I open my other eye and try to focus. Looks like a hotel room—but where on Earth? I shake my head and it comes back to me: the long flights, the rental car, the late arrival. I rub my eyes.
4:31 AM. I'd better get up—there is so much to do. Shave, shower, get some breakfast. Iron my shirt. Pack the material I need for the day. Take a last look at my slides. And, especially, review the 40 participants' photographs once more, to make sure I know who is who. Then, of course, drive; find the campus and find parking; find the building; find the room. Another typical day.
7:57 AM. I'm entering the room. I'm on schedule; now let's see the damage. The projector connects to my laptop in no time, but the colors are off and, as usual, the remote control is nowhere to be seen. That's okay: if I climb on a chair set on one of the tables, I can reach the controls on the projector itself. There: go back to RGB, tweak the contrast and brightness—problem solved. But wait a second. Tables? I asked for chairs only—no barriers between the participants and me. Oh well, I can use the workout: tables at the back, chairs closer to the front. I feel better. Now check the lights. Prepare the documents. Set my travel clock where I can see it. Clean the white board and test the markers. Tidy up the room.
8:45 AM. I'm jetlagged, sleep-deprived, and underfed. I can feel the tension building up in every part of my body. I'm all alone, miserable, wondering what the hell I am doing there.
8:47 AM. The door goes open and a grad student pops her head in inquisitively. I manage a smile; she smiles back. I recognize her from her picture, but I ask her who she is just the same and I check her on my list. She looks genuinely happy to be in my session, and I strike up a conversation. The tension in my body finds a purpose. My mind follows and focuses.
9:04 AM. The last participant comes in, mumbles an apology for being late, and sits down on the chair we saved for him. I feel a surge of positive energy as I watch my opening sentence phrase itself in my mind. I look at the group. They look at me with seemingly high expectations—bright, intelligent eyes, an unmistakable hunger for learning, and just a touch of apprehension. I have half a day to pique their brains, to make them think, share, and learn. Half a day to change their lives. From now on, and until the last of them leaves, I will feel no hunger, no thirst, no weariness, no sorrow, no pain—only challenge, engagement, and bliss. What a job!
You guessed it: I'm a trainer. My business partner and I help people sharpen their speaking, writing, and graphing skills. We train other trainers, too, and we cover a number of specialized topics, such as statistical thinking or persuasion. We train mostly groups, in sessions that range from a simple 90-minute lecture for a few hundred people to a week-long training program for just 15 to 25 of them. We do so almost indifferently in English, French, Dutch, or Spanish. We travel the world, going wherever people ask us.
The author begins a presentation
What we teach we also do—it keeps our teaching practice firmly grounded in reality. We (help) create written documents, speeches and slides, graphs and page layouts, and other communication tools. We love to take care of all aspects, for a final product of perfect harmony: we design the format, write and typeset the texts, interpret and graph the data, etc. In the same spirit, we self-published a book on “effective communication for rational minds.”
As this point, we get more demand than we can handle, but we are not hiring. Clients come for who we are: this is our greatest asset and our greatest limitation. And the frequent travel and long hours are a price I am willing to pay for the freedom my job affords me. I like to do things my way, and I would not have it any other way.
