Do you know how to be the voice of your brand while livestreaming on social media and when to hire a professional voice?
“I know I should be going live on social media, but I’m too nervous.”
“How do I connect with people using live video? I just don’t have the personality for that.”
“I don’t like my voice, so I’m sure others won’t either.”
These are just some of the stories we tell ourselves. Have you done it? In this day of instant access to everything, you know you should be connecting with your followers by going live, but you just. can’t. seem. to. take. that. leap.
I’m here to help.
Every brand has a story. How well you tell that story determines your impact on the world. Using live video on social media is the best way to connect personally with your potential clients, but how do you do that?
Let me introduce myself: Hi, my name is Tami Romani, and I’m a Brand Voice Strategist.
What that means is I help small business owners feel comfortable when they are being the voice of their own brand on social media, and I also help them to know when to hire a professional voice, like mine, for maximum impact in their marketing efforts.
As a voiceover talent for more than 30 years, I love being the voice of a brand, but I also know that in this age of social media it’s vital for an entrepreneur to connect with their followers on a much more personal level – with live video on social media. My business owner friends have been coming to me for years for help with feeling better about their voices. Now, more than ever, it’s important for an entrepreneur to learn how to feel comfortable in their own voice when they are going live to connect with their tribe. Just as important is knowing when it’s best to use a professional voice for maximum impact. If my voice isn’t a fit for your brand, I’ll help you find one from my large network of voice-over professionals who are ready and willing to help.
Let’s get started Voicing Your Brand!
I am just enough of a space geek to do things like travel to Florida THREE TIMES before finally getting to see a shuttle launch, read books called Packing for Mars: The Curious Science of Life in the Void, and stay up late to watch the lunar eclipse complete with blood moon last night, but not enough of a space geek to learn the math required to study its intricacies and physics properties. I know my limitations, people.
It was a warm spring night and as I settled in to a patio chair at about 1 am, the only sound was the hum of traffic on a far away road and birds chirping their nighttime songs. After I refused to play fetch with him, the dog chewed his rawhide bone while the cat leaped into my lap and snuggled up against my chest.
The quietness of the experience was beautifully soothing. Early in the evening, the moon had been bright white and full. Many hours later, as it rose in the night sky and the eclipse began, a sort of etherial quality enveloped the whole back yard, like when you’ve turned off all the lights to quietly await the arrival of the surprise party victim.
I was glad that the occasion of a lunar eclipse afforded me the opportunity to sit quietly and just BE. This is something that is unfamiliar to me lately, but so necessary. So many things on my To Do list. So many connections to make for business and friendship. So many people to reach out to. Even when I can’t see it, the list swirls inside my head like debris caught in a tornado.
But this. This was a moment. No connections to make, no emails to send, no status to check. There was only scratching the cat behind his ears and gazing at a sight like this:
All I had to do was observe this beautiful illustration of the handiwork of God, spelled out in the alignment of the cosmos to produce perfectly precise shadows on the moon. It was a private moment – just me & God, the dog and the cat. And yet, the knowledge that it was a moment shared with humans all over the world made it somehow more epic than if I’d just sat there enjoying the quiet on any other night.
It was good to be reminded that when I allow myself the luxury of moments like this, I am more grounded. To step away from myself from time to time and soak in whatever is in front of me enlarges my world in a way the world wide web cannot.
You might say I experienced a total eclipse of my mind.
I have a confession to make.
I didn’t drink coffee until it became hip.
That’s right, people. No coffee. Until I was 40.
I used to love the smell of coffee – my parents drank it daily. Mom drank it black, dad added a little milk. The memories of their coffee breath stay with me still. But when I tasted it? Horrible.
And then someone opened up a coffee shop in Seattle and named it after a long-lost relative of mine from Nantucket, and I was hooked. You know how you will always remember where you were when the big milestones of life happened? That’s how it is with me and coffee. I remember vividly the day I drank coffee and LIKED it. I mean, I REALLY liked it. When a little storefront coffee shop called Starbucks opened in my town, my friend casually said to me, “Have you had a frapuccino yet?” Well, not even knowing what a capuccino was, I of course said no. So she bought me one for my birthday. I was turning 40 that week
I remember thinking, “what have these people done to coffee?” I mean, it tasted – so – good. That was 14 years ago, and I’ve never looked back. But I still wasn’t a coffee consumer at home. And then someone else decided that offering flavored creamers in the grocery store would be a good idea. I cautiously brought home some french vanilla creamer one day, dug out the Mr. Coffee we’d had for 20 years and only used a few times a year when company came over, and poured myself a cup of hot steamy feel good sweet smelling java. I took the bait and was all in… hook, line and sinker.
So, on this occasion of International Coffee Day, I salute not the coffee – but all those who made it possible for me to finally drink it.
What’s your favorite coffee drink?
Of course I remember.
School started the next day, so we took the opportunity to sleep in a bit. The attacks began as we were peacefully sleeping here on the west coast. It would be the last time in a long time that would happen. Peaceful sleep.
The phone jolted us awake. It was my nephew Steven, a first responder. “Are you watching this? Have you seen what’s happening?” As he launched into a description of the horrors he was watching on TV I felt the world slow down. What he was describing to me was a movie plot. Not real life. Not here. This is AMERICA. We don’t worry about attacks on our soil. Hollywood was playing its best trick yet, a’la War of the Worlds.
Although I knew they would talk about it the next day at school, I remember trying to shield my kids from the images. I had to shield myself at times, how could I explain to them why some people thought it better to jump out a window than to die huddled under a desk? My tongue went numb. But I know they felt it. The whole country and much of the world was in a somber mood and its depths reached to the farthest corners of our little lives.
The rest of that day found us going through the motions of first day of school preparation. Stopping by school later that day to meet the teacher of all things, all the other moms spoke in hushed voices while the teachers pretended everything was business as usual. It was surreal. It was unreal. Almost as if it wasn’t really happening. It couldn’t be happening. Some had loved ones stranded in other parts of the country. The uncertainty of our future was crushing.
And then, the stories came. Stories of heroism and stories of kindness. Stories of hope and stories of unity. Stories of missed flights and silent alarm clocks allowing that person to live and not die that day. Stories of hope in the midst of the cacophony of chaos. Before long, the stories of good outweighed the stories of evil, and that is what we clung to in the aftermath.
Yes, there is evil in this world. Jesus said the enemy came to steal and to kill and to destroy (John 10:10) If anything, the events of 9/11 brought that realization home for me more than anything else could have. But Jesus didn’t stop with stating the obvious. His next breath offered hope. “…but I came that they might have life, and have it abundantly.” I choose life.
The power is out. And you know what that means in this day and age: no internet, no firing up the microphone to do voice over auditions, no getting the car out of the garage, no laundry. No internet – oh, did I say that already?
My first reaction to hearing the power would be out for several hours this morning was relief. A deep sigh, even. What a glorious thought! Now I can get some writing done, I thought. No checking email for auditions to do, since I can’t do them anyway. No distractions, I thought.
And then I took a picture of the crane reaching over the house to replace our worn out power pole and posted it on Instagram, Twitter and Facebook.
And then I checked for comments on Instagram and Facebook until my iPhone battery ran dry.
Ok, NOW, I can sit down and get some writing done. What’s that noise? My senses are bombarded not only by the work going on behind my back yard, but also by the incessant noise of city workers grinding a tree stump at the front of the house. Then there’s the trash truck coming by. Maybe I should’ve just fled to Starbucks when I had the chance and could still get my car out of the garage – at least there I’d have the internet and my distractions would be the normal ones.
I have been given a gift of no outside influences and I can’t stop my mind from wandering. Unnerved at my lack of ability to calm down and focus on the enjoyable task of writing, I think perhaps there IS something to this adult ADHD thing, after all. And, maybe I have it. Between gazing out the back window to make sure the telephone pole guy hasn’t fallen to his death, to peering out the front door at the noisy tree grinders across the street, to listening to my growling tummy long for the smoothie I was about to make for breakfast, and now can’t, I am undone. And a bit disappointed, really.
I have prided myself on becoming a 50-something tech-savvy modern woman. My friends and family come to me for answers. I am the I.T. guy in my house. My adult kids say things like “you post too much stuff, mom.” I proudly wear this badge up front and center.
But now I fear I am a classic connect-aholic. Am I addicted to the INTERNET?
I want to be able to have a nice, calm, productive writing day, I really do – but the longing for connecting with others drives my day, especially since I work from home. Alone in my studio/office all day, it’s somehow comforting to know I can always chat with a fellow voiceover talent via Facebook if I have a pause in my day. Or I can post a comment in a voiceover group such as “the phrase ‘in perpetuity’ is like kryptonite for me today” and watch the LOL’s and virtual pats on the back come rolling through the comments section. How pathetic am I?
Part of me wants to force myself to go without power for a week and REALLY get some writing done. Part of me wants to find a therapist who can rid me of this creeping annoyance I feel at myself. And part of me just wants my internet back, darnit! I know, I know – I can see the hashtags now – #firstworldproblems.
An hour later, I am calm. Serene, even. The tree grinding has stopped. The power pole replacement noise has dulled to just a couple of men chatting while they work. The trash trucks are infrequent passers-by. I had a bowl of cereal instead of a smoothie and it did not kill me. And my power is still out. It turns out, I can adjust after all! Just give me a minute. Or Sixty. I have no internet to distract me and 71% battery left on my laptop.
After that, there’s always pen & paper.
I started a blog called Following the Way of Love more than a year ago with the intention of writing about my mom and dad as I sift through the remnants of their lives together. Well, not much sifting has been done. At least not in the sense that I thought it would happen. Oh, I had the best of intentions. And so did my brother, Ron, who lived in their house. We’d talk about getting together to look at photos and sort through their things that were still there and box them up or give them away or…Or?
When Ron died suddenly last month while napping after work, all that changed. All those good intentions went right out the window and now became sudden necessities. Now there was a mobile home that must be sold. Sorting ensued, but not the kind of leisurely sorting I had envisioned. This sorting was the kind done with a goal and focus on the prize. And what was that prize? Three days of selling off my parents’ lives in one dollar increments. The Estate Sale.
Phone calls were made. Photos sent by text messages to family members I want to make sure are included in the process. Ron’s worldly possessions were packed in two boxes for us all to look at together. More boxes were packed and brought home to be unpacked and reviewed by the family at a later date. God forbid one of them should say, “What ever happened to the ________ grandma/grandpa/mom/dad/Ron used to have?” and I have to reply that I sold it for five bucks at The Estate Sale. And that still may happen, for my memories are not their memories.
The enormity of the task was daunting. I systematically began in one corner of the modest mobile home where they lived and touched each and every item in that place. Yes, EACH and EVERY item. I’m not kidding. Treasures were found, to be sure. Memories were resurrected, sometimes prompting a smile, sometimes tears.
And while it was painful and overwhelming at times, I wouldn’t trade the task or give the tiniest thought to having someone else do it for me. For in dealing with the possessions of my family, I was reminded of how very blessed I am and what an adventure life is. The mugs my daddy bought on one of his train trips, my brother’s swim fins he used for bodysurfing the California waves, the silly round tins containing my mom’s sewing notions, a vase she picked up in the Old City of Jerusalem while on a pilgrimage to Israel. Life, as they knew it, was GRAND!
Countless neighbors have stopped by to shop and give their condolences. One couple even told me of plans to sell their mobile home and live in their motor home in the coming years until they find a small place to live out their final years. They want to spare their kids the agony of what I must be going through. Agony? Their comment took me aback as I realized I must face this task not with dread, but with joy in honor of the lives these few earthly possessions represent.
No, there is no agony here. For their children’s sake, I hope that sweet couple change their minds.