Eric Tian

A few months ago, I ran an experiment in talking to strangers. It was difficult at first, but over time I began to notice people who were excellent at having conversations, and others who were more difficult to talk to. Some observations on what makes a good conversationalist I will share here.

Here are seven (subjective) rules on how to be a better conversationalist.

1. Make them feel heard.

The golden rule. You do not have to agree with them or even respect them a whole lot, but you must make your partner feel heard. There are few things more painful and insulting than sharing one’s time and thoughts only to realise that the other person is not listening. They might as well talk to a wall.

The questions you ask will often reveal if you have been paying attention. Take note of any ambiguous details, or any details that have been omitted and gently ask. A great question to ask is, “what do you mean by X?”

Body language is huge here as well. Obvious ways to show you are listening include giving your full attention to your partner (no phones or multitasking) and mirroring (repeat what they have said). Subtler techniques include smiling, nodding and holding strong eye contact – often known as active listening.

However, don’t pretend to listen without really listening. People can usually tell if you are smiling and nodding but secretly haven’t retained a thing. Which brings me to my next point:

2. Remember what they have said.

It is uncommon for people to remember details from past encounters. But if you can make the effort to keep notes from previous conversations and recall them later, you will be rewarded. Remembering achieves two things:

1. It signals that words are not wasted on you, for you respect their time by listening and remembering.
2. It shows interest in the other person, and to feel you are interesting is immensely comforting. This may open doors to broader conversations in the future.

Examples of easy details you can remember are:

• ongoing endeavours (how’s that project going?)
• family (how’d your sister’s recital go?)
• pets (how’s your dog?)
• birthdays / zodiacs / MBTI (isn’t it your birthday next week?)
• random / quirky stuff (you hate mangoes, don’t you?)

The more specific the memory, the better. “How’s your dog’s injury going? Has he seen the vet?” is better than “How’s your dog?”. But don’t recall too much. There’s a fine line between thoughtful and creepy. I’ll leave you to figure that one out.

Also note that the converse of this statement is true. People that continually forget details you’ve told them are mind-numbingly annoying. If you have to remind someone more than five times that you went to Tasmania last year, or you’ve started a new hobby, or you’re allergic to peanuts, then either they have dementia or they don’t really care. Do not be this person.

3. Use the other person’s name.

Most people – including myself – love to hear their name used. Easy places to add this are in:

1. Greetings (Hi Tom! / See you later Tom!)
2. Questions (Tom, don’t you think that bird looks a bit odd?)
3. Compliments / teasing (Tom, you look dashing today / Tom, your hair is positively filthy)

4. Look excited to see them.

Again, the easiest way to do this is to actually be excited to see them. People can usually tell if you’re faking this. But in case you’re particularly tired, or an alien in need of pointers, here are some quick tips:

1. Open body language: Stick your feet out towards them. Don’t cross your arms or put hands in your pocket. Lean towards them.
2. Eye contact: Strong eye contact. Wider eyes show energy and interest.
3. Vocals: Adopt a slightly higher pitch. Speak faster and louder.
4. Smile.

5. Share stories (and laugh about them).

If you can tell a personal story and laugh about it, you achieve two things:

1. You signal that it is safe to be vulnerable. The other person may also take this as an invitation to share some of their own stories, which can lead to more interesting topics.
2. You give them an opportunity to further drive the conversation. If you’ve told a somewhat decent story, there will be plenty of questions they can ask you, leading you down new paths. Telling stories are a great substitute to a constant stream of question-answer-question-answer.

6. Avoid generic responses.

When responding, try to remove these words from your vocabulary:

• “Good”
• “Interesting”
• “Nice”
• “Cool”
• “I see”

99% of people default to these phrases. They are safe and will work in most cases, but they are also boring, show a lack of effort and can often kill a conversation. Alternatives include:

• “What do you mean?”
• “Tell me more.”
• “Why?”

In particular, “why?” is a great question to move onto deeper conversations, as it often reveals deeper morals, values and goals.

Saying nothing is preferable to saying something generic. A short silence can signal that you are contemplating on what’s been said and thinking of a more thoughtful answer than “nice”.

7. Observe, and adjust.

Throughout the span of a conversation you will find topics that particularly strike a nerve. Notice these. If in response to a question they seem uncomfortable and give short replies, it is time to move on. If instead they respond with unusual excitement about a topic, lean into it and remember it for future conversations.

However, in general I have noticed that the topic matters little in how enjoyable a conversation is. If you create a safe, attentive environment, any subject can be interesting. I’ve had fascinating conversations over “mundane topics” like the weather and study, but also easily forgettable ones over “deep topics” like religion, books or mortality. What matters most is the dynamic of the conversations – whether one feels heard, safe and remembered. Bonus marks if you can be a little different and entertaining with your responses (see tip 6).

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At the end of the day, feel free to experiment. These tips are only a culmination of my observations and the question of what makes a good conversationalist will depend on your own personality and mood. But if you can make it your chief goal to make a person feel heard, you are most certainly on the right track.

The morning of June 13th was bright and sunny, with the warmth of a mid-summer day. Orchid trees swayed in the distance and the grass in the gardens shone a rich green. Young children ran barefoot in the fields and picked stones, making noises like wild animals.  

Between 9 and 10 o’clock, the kids were called back home. Parents barked orders to shower and the best clothes and perfume were put on. The raffle was beginning.

The elderly villagers were the first to arrive, who had witnessed the raffle many times in the past. They walked slowly from their houses, always alone, and smiled sadly at passers by. Many wondered if it would finally be their turn this year.

The families were the next to arrive. Some of the older children formed groups and talked of the school semester just passed. The boys discussed teachers, pranks and sport, while the girls stood together gossiping, occasionally glancing over at the boys. The parents did not speak but nodded at friends and colleagues while keeping a watchful eye over the children. 

Finally, the workers assembled. Keys jangled from their pockets, having just closed shop for the day. The mechanic’s face was covered in soot, the baker smelt of bread and the librarian carried a bag of books. They hurried towards the crowd, sweating, and whispered greetings to the other villagers.

By noon, all the villagers were assembled in the local square, in front of the stage. 

The raffle was conducted by Mr. Barkly, the village’s mayor. He was a short, fat man and was generally liked because of his gentle and kind, yet pragmatic nature. He walked carrying a small black box onto the stage where a small table lay. He waved to the residents and called out, “Hot day, isn’t it? Let’s get this started, folks.”

Mr. Barkly placed the box on the table. His face was red from the sun and the boys noticed sweat patches under his armpits. “The raffle should be good this year,” he announced. “Our neighbours found dramatic increases in productivity from it.” The villagers didn’t respond. 

“Is there anyone who would like to be exempt from this year’s raffle?” he asked. No response. Mr. Barkly waited patiently. One minute, then two passed. But just as it seemed nobody would respond, a woman’s voice pierced the crowd. “Please, I beg you, take my youngest son out of the draw. He is too young and sick.” It was Mrs. Young, the local electrician. Her husband had died of pneumonia six months ago, leaving her alone to care for little Billy.

“Exemption denied.” Mr. Barkly said. “Unless they are being sent to another village or under the age of five, all children are eligible.” Mrs. Young bowed her head and cried silently, not bothering to argue the decision. Billy had just turned five two days ago. The crowd around her patted her back and whispered assurances in her ear. Billy stood next to his mother holding her hand, too young to understand the situation. 

“Nobody else?” The mayor’s eyes scanned the crowd, giving ample time for a statement. The whole town was silent. He nodded slowly and removed a keychain from his back pocket where one dozen keys lay. After fumbling around, he found the smallest key and unlocked the black box.

Mr. Barkly stared at the pile of names inside. The pile was smaller than he remembered, he thought to himself. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and reached his fat hand into the box. After some rummaging, he finally closed his hands onto one piece of paper, and slowly pulled it out. The whole town watched quietly.

“Mrs Young.” 

Faces slowly turned to the pale electrician, still holding little Billy in her left hand. The crowd around her backed away with a sigh, offering their apologies. Schoolboys took their rocks out of their pockets, having prepared them already, while others went to get their own from a small pile nearby. Mr. Barkly walked over. 

“Come here, Billy.” He gently called out. “Come here.” Billy looked up at his mother, who gripped his hand so hard that it began to hurt. The boy did not move. Mr. Barkly, with a sigh, beckoned to a giant man in the crowd with his finger. It was the local blacksmith, Mr. Smith, and it was usually he that sorted out situations like this. The large man approached the boy and forcefully broke the grip between mother and son. Taking Billy in his arms, he walked back to the crowd. 

Mrs. Young began to break down in sobs, having acknowledged her fate. “It is better me than him,” she reflected. If only she could have spent more time Billy and made more memories. She wondered if he would even remember her when he grew up into a man. If he grew up into a man. In her last moments, she prayed, despite having never prayed before, that God would give Billy a long and meaningful life, full of happiness and health…

“Sorry,” Mr. Barkly said, with genuine sympathy. “This is the only way we can provide adequate resources for the whole town.” With a final smile, he stepped back and the villagers closed around her. The first rock sliced Mrs. Young on the calf, opening an artery. The second hit her on the chest, where she cried out temporarily, winded by the force, but was soon silenced by the deadly flurry of stones. Even when she was quite clearly dead, some, especially the younger men, continued to hurl rocks at her, further distorting the lifeless corpse. After a few minutes, the villagers stopped and her body sat in a pool of blood, her face unrecognisable. 

“More rations for us all,” Mr. Smith muttered quietly. The town dispersed and headed home. 

Inspired by: “The Lottery,” by Shirley Jackson

After a two month break from blogging, reading my old posts again has made me realise how mediocre my writing is.

There is a clumsiness and childishness in my prose that is absent in “proper” writers. Some posts are too long, boring and redundant. Others are too short, ambiguous and unclear. Of the 300+ posts written before this one, I can say there’s only a handful that I’m truly satisfied with. For the rest, the temptation is to pick up a giant red pen and substantially edit.

One of the great benefits of a break is perspective. From reading other authors, I’ve come to realise that a great idea is insufficient by itself – to be powerful, it requires clear prose, correct grammar and a sensible structure.

When you read the likes of Neil Gaiman, Stephen King and Alain de Botton you find a sense of astonishment, for their words are like magic; each sentence has a distinct, marching rhythm, and each adjective is perfect in its place. The prose isn’t tiring but flows like butter, and you find yourself being drawn into their universe without even really noticing it.

In light of this, part of me wants to delete everything I’ve written before and retire.

But similar to how one vows change when when confronted with disgusting imperfections, there is hope. By seeing the gap between my writing and strong prose, there appears a destination to run towards. And embarking on this destination, like any adventure, is exciting. The chasm to better is simultaneously daunting and comforting.

It’s like mercilessly being destroyed by a computer at chess; it feels terrible, hopeless even, but you can’t help but feel inspired at how great one can become at the game.

And one day, with enough persistence, one may even approach greatness themselves.

The last two months were a painful experiment.

I stepped away from regular blogging for a while – for reasons I’ll share another time – and not writing made me realise how much I need to write. To compensate, I’ve begun journalling more obsessively, taking more online notes, and writing compulsive short stories, some of which I’ll share in the future. But it just hasn’t been the same.

In particular, there are three main reasons why I’ve come back to blogging.

1. The thrill of clarity

The more I write, the more I realise I have no idea what’s actually in my head. It takes a lot of painful exploration to even begin to understand your thoughts. But when a breakthrough occurs, the feeling of clarity is completely worth it. It’s like finding a little crystal in a room full of dust.

During the blogging break I’ve begun noticing my ideas aren’t as sharp anymore. It takes more time for me to explain my thoughts now and it’s often in incoherent ways. That’s when I realised writing online was crucial in examining my ideas. Without this practice, the quality of my conversations and reflections rapidly deteriorated.

2. Sharing is fun

I find something beautiful in throwing your voice into the void and leaving it for the world to discover. Most of the time, the call goes unanswered. But the thought of a stranger reading a post and having their life improved, even for just a moment, brings me enormous joy.

I have had the trajectory of my life drastically altered from other people’s blog posts. Despite the increasing abundance of social media, I still firmly believe in the power of this medium.

3. I like the pain

Finding ideas worth sharing is difficult. But it’s kind of satisfying in a weird way, similar to how bodybuilders enjoy muscle soreness. The exhaustion that comes from finding and consolidating an idea is one unlike that from studying or exercise or in other domains. It is unique, more addictive, more intoxicating. One I will keep running back to.

More thoughts to come.