Inside the Ideaplex
If you provide some kind of service to clients (as most of us do), you’ll know from experience that some of your beloved masters are easier to work with than others. Some are delightful, some forgettable, and a few you proclaim as downright impossible. Although your view of the client depends on a multitude of factors (such as your relative levels of experience, your disciplines, and the nature of the project), I will go out on a limb to say that there really is such a thing as an “impossible” client — someone who exhibits one or more “bad behaviors” that make the collaboration more difficult than it needs to be and frustrates your ability to perform the service you have been engaged to provide. For many of us, when clients act this way, our primal instincts kick in and we’re tempted to respond with even worse behaviors of our own.
There is a better way. Impossible clients can, in fact, be managed; but only if you resist the temptation to fight fire with fire. Instead, deliver — and let your talent speak for itself. If you fulfill your end of the bargain, it’s much easier to find positive outcomes when clients behave badly.
Here are four typical “impossible” behaviors, and ways of responding that I have found effective:
Impossible Behavior #1: Self-Barking (aka Micromanaging)
I worked in the United Kingdom for a couple of years, and there learned a favorite client-related expression: “You don’t hire a dog and bark yourself.” Unfortunately, that’s exactly what some clients do — insert themselves where unneeded, micromanage, sometimes even perform the work they hired you to do.
Temptation: Take offense. Start a pissing contest of competence display. Out-perform your client to demonstrate your superior abilities.
Better plan: Continue to do your work, unfazed. Wait for your (eventually desperate) client to ask for help when the going gets rough. Let your skill and talent speak for themselves.
If you are better at your job than your client (you are, right?), you can be content in doing your work, and then laugh and privately roll your eyes when your client inevitably says something like, “Well, I had to get the ball rolling…”
Impossible Behavior #2: Feedback Deluge/Drought
Either your client inundates you with feedback — I once developed a book with five authors and received a marked-up manuscript from each — or starves you and leaves you blindly wandering down a potentially wayward path.
Temptation: In the case of deluge, complain that you can’t possibly be mindful of so much criticism. In the case of drought, demand more input and refuse to continue until you get it.
Better plan: When deluged, negotiate a process in which the client’s feedback (no matter the amount) is pre-synthesized and delivered in digestible chunks, so as to be (or at least appear to be) more manageable. In the case of drought, don’t make any assumptions. Ask for feedback directly, early, and often.
You may not always be pleased with (or agree with) the feedback you hear — especially when you’re hearing too much of it or none at all. But keep in mind that your mission is to collaborate, and that your goal is not to train your client, but to do the best possible work you can. Feedback implies a discussion and a back-and-forth, and will always improve the outcome.
Impossible Behavior #3: Deadline Dichotomy
Impossible clients are careless about deadlines — they don’t necessarily deliver the materials you need on the agreed upon schedule (thereby delaying your process and disrupting the cadence of your work), but no matter how laggardly they may be, your deadlines do not budge. If you miss a milestone, the client hangs a millstone around your neck.
Temptation: Whine. Accuse the client of foot-dragging and being unreasonable. Plead/negotiate/demand more time.
Better plan: Create a realistic timeline to start. Overestimate how long it will take you to complete a task by a factor of two. Work late or on weekends when you have to.
I don’t let clients know exactly how long it takes me to do what I do. This is not to deceive them, but because my pace is born of decades of practice, and the amount of time spent is not equivalent to the amount of value delivered. (I realize this differs from profession to profession.) We once tried to develop a fast-track approach to the development of book proposals and found that, on average, it took twice as long as the standard process. Why? We were so focused on the deadlines we couldn’t focus on the work itself.
Impossible Behavior #4: Credit Grabbing/Blame Assigning
When the project is completed successfully, the impossible client takes credit for it and downplays your role. If the work falls short, the client makes sure you and your firm are prominently mentioned.
Temptation: When things go well, thrust yourself forward. Seek credit. When things go wrong, fade back. Place blame. Tell the “real story” behind your client’s back.
Better plan: Compose a written agreement that specifies exactly how you/your work will be acknowledged in public materials. Or, decide to keep a low profile, even remain anonymous. Let the work speak for itself. Let the client shine.
Everyone wants recognition for the work they do, but your main task is to fulfill your promise. If you do that, the chances are better (although not 100%) that the client will speak well of the work and of you, and that word will get around. Recognition is warming. More work keeps the heat on.
A final thought. In the study of resilience, there is an argument that holds that disruption and difficulty can bring positive outcomes and new opportunities. I have found this to be the case with impossible clients. They are, of course, not really impossible at all: just difficult, trying, exasperating perhaps. But in every engagement I’ve had with an impossible client, I have found or developed better ways to collaborate, communicate, and to bring impossibility back into the realm of the possible.
This post was originally published on HBR.org.
How do you decide which book to read next? (Assuming you read books.) I don’t mean books you must read—for work or school or for the book group. I’m talking about the book that—of the hundreds of millions of possible choices—you choose to read, want to read, can’t wait to read, will ignore even the latest episode of Homeland to devour.
The once simple act of choosing your next book has, for a number of reasons, become absurdly complicated now, as your personal path to a book has come under the influence of factors beyond your control. As a result, I believe, some of the joy and anticipation associated with cracking a cover for the first time has gone up in smoke.
One factor in this overcomplication is, of course, Amazon. In the first eleven months of 2012, roughly half (43.8%) of all books bought by consumers in the US were purchased online—that’s up from 25% in 2010. This growth in online purchasing has largely come at the expense of the large chains, Borders and Barnes & Noble, while the other outlets—including mass merchandisers—have not shifted terribly much. Surprisingly (to me anyway), sales at independent (non-chain) bookstores have increased over the past two years—from 2.4 to 3.7%. A tiny piece of the pie, yes—but a significant one.
How we purchase our books has clearly shifted toward the digital, but the question of how we choose those books remains. Any prospective book-buyer sets out with some motivation—to buy a specific book, a book on a specific topic, a type of book, or to browse for a book they (or a gift-recipient) might enjoy, based on personal preferences, recommendations of friends, reviews they’ve read, ads they’ve seen, and many other influences.
Amazon and the Algorithmic Paradox of Choice
Here is where the algorithm rears its peculiar, multivariate head. Amazon is the acknowledged trailblazer in gathering data, analyzing it, and repackaging it into processes designed to influence your user experience. But Amazon can’t replicate the experience of a bookstore—which combines so many tangibles and intangibles that are not (yet) available online. In a bookstore (or a library), you are subject to a much freer and random form of browsability. You can flip through and riffle the pages of a book without the rigid control of the back/forward arrows. You can catch a quip that makes you laugh or a sentence that inspires you to buy. Glance to your left and you might notice an attractive person (a potential date?) chortling at something in a book with a suddenly intriguing cover. You can talk with a clerk who has read every book in the store, will size up your tastes in a minute or two, and can make a match better than the cleverest, most data-rich algorithm. And then there is the feel of the book—its smell, its heft, its texture, and all of that.
Don’t get me wrong. I buy tons of books on Amazon and am not going to make a plea for the salvation of the independent bookstore. Amazon offers unbelievable selection, terrific prices, and super-convenient, speedy delivery. But it’s important to know how Amazon helps you choose a book, because it employs a number of data-driven helpers. It has the lists, hundreds (if not thousands) of lists—Recommended for You; New For You; Best-Sellers; Popular by Category, and so on—designed to put titles (and covers) that may appeal to you in front of your eyes. This is fine. You can’t step back and see the entire Amazon store, so Amazon holds your hand and does the online walking for you.
Take, for instance, the Recommended For You list, and the patent Amazon submitted for its creation—for a “recommendation service” driven by “content-based filtering” or by “collaborative filtering.” The list of recommendations displayed on your screen is a selection of books concocted from activity occurring all over Amazon, both at present and in the past, from books similar to ones you viewed, put in your cart (whether you bought them or not), or purchased outright. Or, even, based on what a defined community has viewed, carted, or bought.
As we all know from experience (and as Amazon readily admits in its patent application), there are real limitations to this kind of recommendation. Unlike the smart human bookstore clerk (or friend or colleague or teacher), the algorithm has nothing to say about the quality of the recommended book. New books may suffer from a “cold start,” which means there just isn’t enough data to go on, so they’re less likely to be recommended. And, of course, the algorithm cannot begin to imagine what books might interest you that are unlike anything you have read before. And that is a very serious limitation: the algorithm keeps pushing you down the same path. It can’t make weird connections or be visited by flashes of recommendational genius.
Then there are Amazon’s ‘Popular’ lists, which—at least for books—show up within specific categories (e.g., Science Fiction, Romance), and differ significantly from its Best-Sellers list. The Best-Sellers list is a rather blunt instrument that displays the top-selling books in the last 24 hours. The Popular lists, however, are much more finely tuned. First, these lists incorporate a longer time frame—not 24 hours, but 24 days (a month, more of less). Popular lists also take into account free sales or downloads, which the Best-Sellers lists do not. And finally, these Popular lists are more affected by Amazon reviews, though only by quantitative aspects of those reviews, e.g.,, how many reviews, how many stars.
Why Amazon’s Reviews Matter…And Don’t
Which brings me back to the question of quality. Amazon does not know much about its reviewers. Yes, it has its Hall of Fame reviewers and Top 100 reviewers, with short profiles of them available—but that information is supplied by the reviewer. They could be anyone. And they could be intentionally misleading you. Even, *gasp*, deceiving you.
Indeed, as with any system, Amazon’s is ripe for gaming. Last year, Amazon deleted a trove of reviews (the number was never disclosed) after it became obvious the system was being manipulated. In August 2012, the New York Times ran a story about Todd Rutherford and his website, GettingBookReviews.com, where authors could go—and did go, in hoards—to pay Rutherford to write reviews of their books and post them to Amazon. And there was the issue of ‘sock-puppeting’: authors using pseudonyms and aliases to write reviews of their own books and those of their competitors. RJ Ellory, the British best-selling author of thrillers, was at the fore of this scandal—after being found out by another author—for writing glowing reviews of his own work and denigrating reviews of his competitors’ books.
Such manipulations—paying for 5-star reviews, writing dozens of reviews of your own work—increase a book’s visibility, which results in more clicks, higher rankings on other lists, and, theoretically anyway, more sales.
In response, Amazon not only deleted reviews—many of which may have been genuine and innocent—it also created new reviewer guidelines that may preclude legitimate reviews from appearing on their site. For instance, authors may encounter an Amazon blockade when posting a review of someone else’s book simply because they are an author. But those fake reviews commissioned by Rutherford through GettingBookReviews.com? Many of them are still online.
And there’s more to make one question the value of Amazon’s reviewing system than foul play. Harriet Klausner, an Amazon Hall-of-Fame reviewer, has written nearly 30,000 reviews. And, according to the New York Times, more than 99 percent of them were either four or five star reviews. Mrs. Klausner told the Times, “If I can make it past the first 50 pages, that means I like it, and so I review it.” I wouldn’t call that a particularly discerning attitude.
What You See is…What You Get?
What does this all mean for us as book-buyers, as readers? In the transition away from physical bookstore to online retailer, we’ve subjected ourselves to the world of metrics, where numbers, leaderboards, and statistical analyses generate and infuse meaning into our interactions and our lives. Instead of a good friend, a trusted reviewer, a kindred-looking stranger, we’re introduced to books by a conglomeration of data tweaked and weeded to meet our exact specifications, which have been defined by another conglomeration of data. And while it may be true that “numbers never lie,” I actually think they can. Or, at least, they tell a short-sighted kind of story.
It’s concerning that online purchasing is rapidly replacing in-life purchasing, but not because of its effect on the superstores (which often had a lot of books, but not much selection) or on the small independents (which aren’t dying anyway), but on how we think about selecting books. How much do we want to be guided by the numbers—the metrics, the %$#@! algorithms—the most-populars, the best-sellers, the most reviews and highest-starred, the books that everybody else is buying and reading, the books that are most like the ones I’ve already read?
So many of my richest and most memorable reading experiences have come about in unexpected and unpredictable ways. I don’t even remember how I got on to reading 13th-century Icelandic sagas or Joseph Schumpeter or Tin-Tin, but I guarantee you no algorithms were involved.
What’s more, just as Netflix is producing television material based on known likes, the pervasiveness of data-driven book selection will inevitably inform and influence the creation of books. The demands of data will determine what books get written, marketed, and bought. Readers will become a collection of data points. Books will be created and shaped by data points. And our choices will be determined by the analysis of still more data points.
Amazon’s attempts to help us choose stem from a problem of its own making: scale. The selection is far too vast for any human being to manage. And the intimate book-to-human relationship has been overshadowed by the giddiness of unlimited choice, the bullying of the crowd, the siren-song of the popular, and the rut of our own habits.
In terms of numbers, then, we’re no match for the algorithm. Fortunately, however, when it comes to creativity, accommodation of randomness, synthetic abilities, intuition, insight, risk-taking, and adventurousness, humans have a considerable edge. And that will keep writers writing weird and wonderful stuff and readers stumbling onto books they never knew they wanted. Please.
 Statistic based on reviews HK had written at time of NYT article, which numbered 25,000, not 30,000.
The meta story of a mega-bestseller is always interesting to me and to any author whose books do not quite fit that description. Of all the books published in a year, a decade, why did that particular one break out so massively?
It is the American question, really, about everything: What makes a success? — in books, sports, business, education, or any other endeavor.
Stephen Hawking, author of the super-mega-bestseller A Brief History of Time, has now published his autobiography, My Brief History, an adapted excerpt of which appeared in the Wall Street Journal. In it, Hawking attempts to analyze why his book gained such attention and sold so many copies. (Millions.)
I found the article rich with intriguing details that track closely with my model of the idea entrepreneur — how they go public with an idea, break out from the surrounding noise, and gain influence.
First is the matter of personal narrative. Hawking writes that most reviews of A Brief History of Time began with mention that he was wheelchair-bound as the result of Lou Gehrig’s Disease, was unable to speak, and did not have complete command of his fingers.
“Undoubtedly, the human interest story,” Hawking writes in the WSJ article, “has helped sales of my book.” He adds that people who bought it for that reason “may have been disappointed” as the book was “intended as a history of the universe, not of me.”
Hawking misses the point. People often buy a book because of the author’s story, whether the story is in the book or not. Hawking does not mention the massive amount of publicity, coverage, or discussion that surrounded the book. I find it hard to believe that had A Brief History of Time been written by an unassuming, non-colorful, regular person it would have had a similar trajectory of success.
However, the point is that the book couldn’t have been written by such a person. Ordinary, unassuming people just don’t write powerful, paradigm-busting books. And there is something inherently compelling about a man with ALS, which in most cases has no known cause, coming up with a book that addresses, as Hawking writes, “the biggest question of all: Where did we come from and where are we going?”
(Not to mention the conclusion Hawking reaches about the universe — that it is “neither created or destroyed: It just is”. Shades of Eckhart Tolle, another super-mega-bestselling author.)
The personal narrative is essential, fundamental even, in the end, whether or not it is addressed directly in the book.
Of course, I found A Brief History to be a very strong and well-written book, a view supported by many reliable critics. It’s clear. Insightful. Witty at times. On a topic of enormous interest and importance. Being a wheelchaired physicist with a fascinating personal narrative will do you no good if you have written a god-awful book.
Here’s another factor: Hawking admits he went into the adventure of writing a “popular book about the universe” partly with the intention of making money, to help pay for his daughter’s school fees. It’s meaningful that Hawking mentions money. Every author wants his or her book to be financially successful, of course, but Hawking was especially willing to do things that were likely to increase its chances of doing so.
To wit: Hawking chose to work closely with an editor (at Bantam) who, by Hawking’s telling, worked him very hard. “Each time I sent him a rewritten chapter, he sent back a long list of objections and questions. At times I thought the process would never end. But he was right: It is a much better book as a result.”
This is not the reaction of all authors: some resist the editor, try to subvert, give up, or simply can’t pull it off. Hawking, even with the use of fewer fingers than a full complement (the press constantly got the number wrong, he says), persisted.
He also took advice about popularizing the title, which had originally been From the Big Bang to Black Holes: A Short History of Time. The editor switched the title and the subtitle, and substituted the word “brief” for “short.” The editor’s “stroke of genius,” Hawking writes, “must have contributed to the success of the book.” (New York Times bestseller for 147 weeks; 10 million copies sold.)
If not for: a) an initial financial motivation, and b) the critical collaboration of a sales-savvy editor, A Brief History may have had a much shorter stint on the best-sellers list, not becoming the mega success we know it as today.
Still, even with all that success, Hawking says he has long sensed there was a lot of crowd-inspired purchasing going on, people buying the book to “display on their bookcase or coffee table.” This is undoubtedly true. I did read the book — no, really I did — but I remember chatting with many people during the book’s first few years of life who knew all about it, but confessed to not having actually cracked the covers.
Which brings me — and brought Hawking — to a final point. As I have written about many other idea entrepreneurs, the ultimate metric of success is not to be found in sales data, number of scholarly references, hits on a website, or ginormity of speaking fees. For Hawking, the proof of the value of his book, and the power of his influence, is there in the pile of letters he gets every day, filled with questions or “detailed comments.” This kind of one-on-one connection is the most tangible, measurable, and usually the most meaningful evidence that you, your book, and your ideas have hit home.
In the deepness of August, one of my clients sent me an email that began, “I am scheduled to go on ‘vacation’ tomorrow…” It struck me that he put quotation marks around the word vacation. He quickly added that he would be at his summer place, where there would be, of course, “a computer, phone, etc.” and that he would “try to be fully available.”
Just as I was starting to imagine what etcetera might refer to (Google Glass?) I had to switch gears and attempt to picture what “trying” to be “fully available” could possibly mean. Struggling out of the surf toward the beckoning of a cellphone ringing in the cabana? Disentangling from cocktail party chatter at the feel of a text buzzing in your shorts?
Everything about the email threw the concept of vacation into high and dubious relief. He wasn’t even actually going on vacation, but just scheduled to go, as if he was being dragged into it by some other person who could not be controlled.
Clearly, my client felt that he was doing this getting-away thing all wrong and had to let everyone know that he knew how wrong it all was.
More typical are the “out-of-office” emails that are both cryptic and highly revelatory. “I will be travelling out of the country with limited access to email.” You know perfectly well that almost everywhere has access to email. Paul Theroux talks about texting his family from scraggly villages in Namibia. You can make calls from the summit of Everest. The person with “limited access”, then, must be vacationing in a submarine, staying at a resort operated by Sherry Turkle, or dissembling.
Then there are the people who make it very clear where they are going, to the point of superciliousness. “I will be travelling in Asia for seven weeks, visiting Myanmar (formerly Burma), Nepal, Bhutan, Lake Baikal, and Vladivostok. I will be checking email only sporadically, when and if possible, and may not have the opportunity to respond until my return, if then.” Work? Play? Pilgrimage? It doesn’t matter. The trip is cooler than yours.
Travel purveyors have been telling us for some time that people no longer take vacations. They do adventure travel or charitable adventuring or health/fitness/wellness retreats or business-pleasure combos. It doesn’t really matter what you do on those days you are not in the office (if you have an office), it’s how you tell people what you’re doing. My client obviously has not gotten the hang of it yet.
I take a different approach. I used to tell everyone every bit of contact information which, at one point, included eleven different phone numbers. Now, I do not let anyone know where I am, ever. I do not use the “out-of-office” replies, because they are obviously just pathetic pleas for attention. I only tell people later that I have been “away” so they can wonder where and when and how and why I didn’t tell them.
What they imagine is usually much more exotic than what actually happened. Is that wrong?