My new column for Colloquy has just been published.
You can check it out here.
Let’s face it, there are days when getting up off the sofa and heading out the door feels like a big deal.
But finishing that draft, shipping your project, abandoning the usual in favor of the innovative, exposing a new concept to the world? Well, that requires fortitude, vulnerability, risk.
I’ve been part of management teams that observed, studied and endlessly re-worked their plans while the competition sped past them.
I’ve become stuck in a swamp of procrastination, worried about abject failure or even the chance that people might see the chinks in my armor.
I’ve sat at the bedside of a dying parent, afraid to tell them what I really felt for fear that I couldn’t handle the overwhelming emotions.
It’s almost always easier to do nothing.
Until it isn’t.
Until that moment of opportunity is lost forever.
Perhaps you’ve seen the legendary New Yorker magazine cartoon that depicts a man standing before two doors, seemingly perplexed. One door is labeled “Heaven” and the other is labeled “Books About Heaven.”
Pick just about any topic you say you are passionate about. Happiness. Innovation. Marriage equality. Immigration reform. Customer experience. Climate change. Being a better parent. Eating healthy. Whatever.
If you are anything like me, sometimes it’s easier to be preparing to go do something meaningful than to actually wholeheartedly embrace the thing we say we want. If I just research a bit more, I tell myself, I will really be prepared when the time is right.
But there is no perfect time.
We have to start before we are ready.
We have to do the work, rather than just read about the work.
Our own version of heaven is here right now, if we are willing to see it and embrace. And if we are willing to start.
“Vulnerability is the birthplace of innovation, creativity and change” - Brene Brown
I hope you are familiar with the work of Brene Brown. Brene is a shame researcher and the author of several great books on the power of vulnerability and the gifts of imperfection. She’s delivered two of the most popular TED talks of all time. She’s been on Oprah. She’s helped me change my life. Yeah, she’s kind of a big deal.
In her most recent TED talk, one of the many powerful things Brene said was this:
“You know what the big secret about TED is? I can’t wait to tell people this. I guess I’m doing it right now. (Laughter) This is like the failure conference. No, it is. (Applause) You know why this place is amazing? Because very few people here are afraid to fail. And no one who gets on the stage, so far that I’ve seen, has not failed. I’ve failed miserably, many times. I don’t think the world understands that because of shame.”
When I headed up strategy & innovation at a large retailer several years ago, I had a one-on-one session with the CEO to discuss a new venture my team was just starting work on. Maybe two minutes into our meeting he paused dramatically, looked at me very seriously and said “Steve, here’s the thing. We can’t fail. We can’t afford another (and here he mentioned a failed store concept from years ago which, as an aside, was doomed from the start by a number of bone-headed decisions). I don’t want to take any risk. None. Do you understand?”
Yeah, I understood. I was screwed. We were screwed. Needless to say, innovation, creativity and change were hardly the hallmarks of our culture during that time and any progress we made was, shall we say, not so easily won.
If you are committed to innovation, you are signing up for failure. It’s not being reckless, but it is accepting that failure comes with the territory. The key is not to never fail, the key is to fail better.
If you are committed to creativity, you are vulnerable to criticism. Any time you put something really new out into the world and say “here I made this” judgment (and perhaps outright hatred) is bound to follow. It can’t stop you.
If you are committed to meaningful change, you are almost certain to be walking straight into gale force headwinds. Vested interests and defenders of the status quo will fight you at every turn. Stay the course. In fact, perhaps it’s time to step on the gas.
It’s taken me a long time to learn this lesson–and frankly I still fight the battle every single day–but I know I do my best work when I push through my fear, when I allow myself to be vulnerable, when I accept that failure is inherent to any growth process.
I hope to see you at the next failure conference. Let’s sit right down front where everyone can see us.
It’s one thing to expect special treatment, to have all sorts of extras heaped upon us by virtue of some earned status.
Good marketers take care to sort out who their best customers are and then focus on treating them differently in the quest for greater retention and brand advocacy. When we’re not recognized–and then somehow rewarded–for our loyalty, we feel slighted. However, unless the trust was egregiously broken, because of a strong relationship, we’re likely to give the brand another chance.
Bad marketers rely too heavily on one-size-fits-all strategies. They favor the easy over the good. They never make it along the “know me, show me you know me, show me you value me” continuum, because they fail at the very first step.
Yesterday I got an email from Pottery Barn Kids offering me a 15% discount for an online purchase. Now I haven’t bought anything from the Pottery Barn brands in a very long time. But, given my recent divorce and move, I have bought a fair amount from their sister brands (Williams-Sonoma, WS Home and West Elm).
Ignoring that it’s fairly easy to enhance my customer profile with externally purchased data, they should already know quite a bit about me, my shopping behavior and propensities. And I can assure you that absolutely nothing suggests that I would be a good prospect for this offer. In fact, my kids are 17 and 21.
If the marketers at Williams-Sonoma aren’t sharing data across the brands, they need to. If the folks at Pottery Barn used any kind of model, it’s deeply flawed. Either way, they just blew it.
Like most of us, I don’t need my mailbox filled up with irrelevant offers. For brands without any real degree of loyalty it’s far too easy to become victims of the “unsubscribe” button.
In the growing battle for share of attention, when you don’t show me that you know who I am, any little bit of permission you might have had is likely to evaporate. And chances are that permission lost, is permission never to be re-gained.
As we enter the holiday season, retailers are already guns ablazin’ with sales and promotions. Like all price wars, this will end badly for just about everybody. Spoiler alert: if you don’t have the lowest cost position you can’t win a price war.
Now don’t get me wrong, I get that promotional marketing is part and parcel of most retailers’ business models. I’ve been around the block a time or two (or three). You may recall that I was in that Johnson guy’s face big time for pulling the plug on discounts at JC Penney. Sales and promotions aren’t going away any time soon, nor should they.
And I certainly understand that retail competitive dynamics are such that if you aren’t aggressive early and often you risk losing out on market share, which is critical in a largely fixed cost business where slow-moving inventory may start to lose value rapidly.
Yet if you look at most retail marketing–particularly during the holidays–you’d think that % off was the entire basis for competition.
The simple fact is that very few players can successfully build their brand positioning around having the lowest prices or the most aggressive sales. Very few.
If you aren’t in this elite group, the bottom line is that you can’t own discount. And chance are you’re just chasing your tail when, instead, you should be laser focused on other dimensions where you have the potential be relevant and remarkable and to build a differentiated, defensible position.
No you can’t own discount. But discount can sure own you.
This past Saturday I was at the Tate Modern in London when I happened upon an installation by minimalist artist Donald Judd.
The piece is a large box that–through its materials and coloration–is evocative of a fire pit. Around the perimeter of the box, about 3 feet out from the sides, is thick black tape, along with the words: “Do not cross this line.”
I found myself wondering why that was there.
Was it to enhance the work’s visual impact? I could surmise that the piece was best viewed from certain angles and being too close would destroy part of the illusion.
Was it to protect the artwork? It’s certainly common for museums to have various admonitions posted to keep visitors from damaging the displays.
Was it part of the art? Maybe Judd was messing with us. In a museum filled with bold and innovative statements, perhaps this was his way to test and challenge us. Maybe my reaction was exactly what he was going for? What would happen if I crossed it?
Alas, I never reached a totally satisfactory answer. And I didn’t cross the line.
As I an enjoyed a post-visit coffee, it occurred to me that we are told not to cross certain lines all the time. Sometimes explicitly, other times the inference is clear. Often the lines that are set are completely arbitrary. Most of the time they are drawn as a means of protection.
The most insidious, I think, are the lines that we draw for ourselves out of fear. Fear of failure. Fear of embarrassment. Fear of discomfort. And on and on. Sometimes we aren’t even aware that we’ve set those boundaries. They’ve become part of who we are. They keep us stuck.
It’s obvious that drawing lines that don’t get crossed is part of any modern, well-ordered society. It’s also obvious that little that is innovative and meaningful happens without certain lines being crossed.
I guess if we’re going to have lines that we don’t cross we had better be sure they’re drawn in the right place to begin with.