Seth Godin's Blog, page 21

The digital swirl is real, it’s disconcerting and it’s loaded with possibility

For millions of years, we’ve evolved to live in community.

Our brains, which are hugely expensive to maintain, got bigger and bigger, primarily to support our ability to engage with others. It’s not simply a useful way to pass the time–it’s a survival tool like no other.

And so we got very good at reading body language. At detecting threats. At finding friends and avoiding strangers. We can spot a liar from across the room (or so we think) and we become despondent when we’re alone for too long.

Suddenly, though, here comes the digital swirl.

Now, instead of 150 people in our core circle of trusted acquaintances, we’re exposed to thousands. Now, instead of pheromones and handshakes, we’ve got to find nuance and cues from video images on a Facetime call.

It’s no wonder we’re stressed out of our minds. All the inputs and outputs have been turned upside down in the course of one generation.

And yet…

And yet, we can find a true friend in Perth. And yet, we can learn from a teacher in another country. And yet, we can see and be seen in ways we never expected.

It’s a swirl because we still haven’t figured it out. We don’t know quite how to sit in front of the camera, or read other people’s intent. We’re not sure how to prioritize the incoming. We invent motives and threats and conspiracies where there are none. We ignore the real threats because they’re gradual and come wrapped in likes and smilies. We hesitate to commit. We over-commit.

Of course we do. It’s a swirl. We’re still inventing cultural conventions and still defining rules of thumb.

And the cognitive load is enormous.

There’s a reason we get stuck in ruts. Ruts are easier. Ruts give our brain a rest.

The breakneck pace of piling up likes, seeking out the newest while watching the old (old? Yahoo is less than 25 years old!) disappear… it’s exhausting.

And thrilling.

Because doors keep opening. They open faster than the others are shutting. There is possibility around many (but not all) corners. The possibility of learning, of connection, of seeing and being seen.

We simply have to discipline ourselves enough that we don’t burn out on it all. We have to find the strength to turn it off, to use it with intent, to realize that it’s simply a tool.

The first step is to acknowledge that it’s a swirl, that it’s new, and that we’re not good at it (yet).

            

Chronic

The worst kind of problem is precisely the kind of problem we’re not spending time worrrying about.

It’s not the cataclysmic disaster, the urgent emergency or the five-alarm fire.

No, the worst kinds of problems are chronic. They grow slowly over time and are more and more difficult to solve if we wait.

Chronic problems are most often solved by building new systems. New ways to engage with the issue over time, methods that create their own habits and their own forward motion.

Step one is to realize you have a chronic problem.

It might not be as thrilling as switching to emergency mode, but it’s more effective.

            

Working in a studio

The boss in a factory relies on compliance. More compliance leads to more profits. Do what you’re told, faster and cheaper, repeat.

This is the history of the twentieth century.

The studio, on the other hand, is about initiative. Creativity, sure, but mostly the initiative to make a new thing, a better thing, a process that leads to better.

It’s peer to peer. The hierarchy is mostly gone, because the tasks can be outsourced. So all that’s left is leadership.

Initiative plus responsibility. Authority is far less important, as are the traditional measures of productivity.

You can tell a studio and factory apart in about three minutes. Where do you work?

            

Where’s your cohort?

The people who get you.

The ones who have been through it with you.

Who see you.

Our life is a series of cohorts, and the special ones connect with us deeply. They raise the bar and they provide a foundation for what’s next.

These are the source of our best memories, the moments where we moved forward and felt the chance to make a difference. I won’t forget the Fast Company Advance in 1997 that changed my life. The late August dinner in 1979 with a dozen peers. The circle of people we reach out to and seek to engage with… These are circles worth being part of.

 

Two weeks ago, we had our first ever altMBA coaches gathering. Of the 84 coaches we invited, more than 75 came. Five came from all the way from Australia…

Every one of them is an alumni of the altMBA. Every one of them has been through the workshop–and even if they weren’t part of the same sessions, they immediately saw each other, and they understood what they’d been part of. They see the work to be done and the chance to help others level up. They show up with their whole selves simply to turn on lights for others.

You can find your cohort. You can organize one, join one, do it with intention.

We each need to see and to be seen.

 

[Today’s the last day to apply for the upcoming altMBA. If you’ve been waiting to level up, today’s your day.]

            

Respect difficult problems

They’re difficult because they resist simple solutions. Glib answers and over-simplication have been tried before, and failed.

People have tried all of the obvious solutions. They haven’t worked. That’s why we’ve resorted to calling them difficult problems.

Difficult problems require emotional labor, approaches that feel risky and methods that might not work. They reward patience, nuance and guts, and they will fight off brute force all day long.

            

“I didn’t do the reading…”

This is a brave and generous thing to say.

If you’re not able (or committed enough) to do the reading before you give your opinion, please have the guts to point that out.

“I didn’t read the proposal, but my bias is…”

We’re winging it. All of us. The world goes faster and faster, and so people are finding themselves unable to read the bill before they vote on it, listen to the entire album before they review it or keep up with the best in the field before they do their work.

That’s not always a good idea.

Winging it is a fine way to start a conversation or get back to first principles. If you’re clear about your background and your focus, you can add a lot of value without doing the reading.

But doing the reading matters. It’s the shortcut to being better at your craft. And it’s respectful to those you’re working with, the ones who cared enough to allocate the time.

But… if you’re not going to do the reading, at least let us know so we can process your input in a useful way instead of assuming that you’re doing the analysis wrong.

            

Where’s your Reckless Daughter?

Joni Mitchell was one of a kind. A sensation. A record-selling machine, with legions of fans.

And then she made Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter. A personal, idiosyncratic album that marked the final gold record of her bestselling streak.

She knew exactly what she was doing. She knew that the crowd wasn’t going to follow her, just as Dylan knew what would happen when he went electric, then gospel.

She had a choice: to make the records her fans had decided in advance that they wanted to hear, or to make the music that she was proud of.

After this, she was free.

Free to make the music she heard in her head, the music she wanted to share.

In a post-Top 40 world, the irony is clear: your Reckless Daughter might very well be the breakthrough you need to reach your true audience and to do the work you’re most proud to do.

The challenge is in accepting that the masses might not cheer you on.

            

Topping off the tank

As the fossil fuel era comes to an end, gas station attendants (those few that remain, as well as the unpaid pumpers who are filling their own tanks) persist in topping off the tank.

After the automatic switch senses the tank is full, they add ten or twenty cents more gas, to reach a round number.

Why?

It’s not faster. It takes time to manually do this.

It’s not more profitable. The extra ten cents on a $40 tank is hardly worth the time.

It’s not more efficient. The number of miles before the next fill-up as a result is tiny.

It’s not even easier. Most people are paying with a credit card, so rounding up does no good.

And…

It’s way more likely to damage the car (gas on the auto body) and hurt the health of the pumper (fumes).

So, why do it?

Three reasons:

Tradition.
Showing the boss and the customer that you’re working hard.
The appearance of control.

It’s the third that’s the real lesson. Human beings trade enormous amounts of agency in exchange for convenience. But not too much agency. Too much agency makes us feel like automatons. Even (especially) when working with cars, those symbols of freedom and control.

What else are we busy topping off?

            

Everyone’s got their thing

Their own fears.

Their own narrative.

Their own drama.

You’re not the only one.

On any given day, your thing is smaller than their thing.

And when things aren’t going the way you expect, it’s worth focusing on that.

            

False limits

You will encounter real limits. You can’t turn yourself invisible, bench press 3,000 pounds or do a heart transplant with a steak knife.

But real limits are easy to identify. We rarely have a problem discovering them.

The false limits, the ones that others put on us, those can be a real problem. Even when the limiter means well–they’re often trying to save us from heartbreak or wasted effort–those limits can become a habit, not something useful.

I got a note from a teacher at York Community College yesterday. He wrote, “Encouraging anyone to become a Linchpin is seriously bad advice for an individual to pursue and for a company to allow….think these things through before you put them out there.”

I’m frustrated and saddened on behalf of the eager students in his class. The ones who are paying out of their pocket, taking time away from work and family, doing the work, pushing themselves to level up… and encountering a teacher who doesn’t believe it’s possible for them to make a difference.

Without a doubt, an industrialist can profit mightily by building jobs that can be done by interchangeable workers at the lowest possible skill and pay. But that doesn’t mean you need to sign up to be one of those interchangeable cogs.

And, without a doubt, there’s work to be done by organizations that simply do what they did yesterday, but perhaps a bit faster or cheaper. But that doesn’t mean that this has to be your work.

The goal of the Linchpin is to make things better by making better things. To dance on an edge, to see what’s possible, to create and contribute, to learn and to ship.

Does it always work? Nope. Hardly. But it’s the path of possibility. And if you’re trusting someone to teach you to make things happen, it helps if they believe it’s possible. That you’re capable of bringing your best self to a problem and doing the difficult work of solving it.

The future is defined by those that change the past. We need you to make a ruckus.